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http://www.archive.org/details/compani6npoetsil00bostrich 


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"N 


COMPANION     POETS. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


LONGFKLLOW^   HOUSEHOLD   POEMS. 
TENNYSOITS  SONGS   FOR    ALL  SEASONS 
BROWNING'S   LYRICS  OF   LIFE. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticxjioi  h.  FtsLoa,  and  FtsLot,  Osgood^  h  Ca 
1871. 


Household   Poems 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

With   Illustrations   by 

John  Gilbert,  Birket  Foster,  and  John  Absolon. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 

1865. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

HENRY    W.     LONGFELLOW, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 

GIFT  OF 


[Note.  —  These  selections  from  the  poems  of  Mr.  Longfellow  are 
made  by  the  Publishers  to  supply  a  demand  for  all  his  shorter  pieces 
of  a  domestic  character  in  a  single  inexpensive  volume  of  a  portable 
shape.] 


•   •    •   •  • 
•    •      •   • 


•  •    •••     •    « 
• ••   ••• •     • 

•  •••••• 


•  •    • 
•    •  •• 


University    Press: 

Welch,   Bigelow,   and  Company, 

Cambridge. 


C737 


CONTENTS. 

•— 

Dkdicatioii 5 

IIyscx  to  the  Night 7 

A  Psalm  q?  Lifb         .        .        . 8 

TriB  Reaper  and  the  Flowers 9 

Tub  Light  o?  Stabs 11 

Footsteps  of  Asgels 12 

Flowebs I J 

The  Belbagckred  Cmr 16 

MiDSiGHT  Mass  for  thk  Dtimq  Ybar 17 

The  Raist  Day zo 

It  is  not  always  May zo 

Thr  Village  Blacksmith •       .  21 

GOD'S-ilCRB zi 

To  the  River  Charles 24 

The  Goblet  of  Life 25 

Maidenhood 27 

Excelsior 29 

A  Gleam  of  Sunshine 31 

Rain  in  Summer jj 

To  a  Child 35 

The  Bridge 41 

Sea -Weed          .        .        • 43 

Afternoon  in  February 45 

The  Day  is  done 46 

The  Arrow  and  the  Sonq 48 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs 48 

The  Evening  Star 51 

Autumn 52 

The  Secret  of  the  Sea .  52 

M107286 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Twilight 54 

The  Lighthouse 55 

The  Fire  of  Drift -Wood 57 

Resignation 59 

The  Builders .        .61 

The  Open  Window 63 

Suspiria 64 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine 65 

Haunted  Houses 66 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge 68 

The  Two  Angels 68 

Daylight  and  Moonlight 71 

My  Lost  Youth 71 

The  Golden  Milestone      ........  74 

Daybreak 76 

The  Ropewalk     . 77 

Sandalphon 79 

The  Children's  Hour 81 

Snow-Flakes 81 

A  Day  of  Sunshine 8? 

Something  left  Undone 84 

Weariness 85 

Children 86 

The  Bridge  of  Cloud 88 

Palingenesis 89 

The  Brook    ....                91 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land 92 

The  two  Locks  of  Hair «  93 

The  Singers 94 

Christmas  Bells  ...              95 


DEDICATION. 


AS  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Hears  round  aboat  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 
And  seein;;  not  the  forms  from  which  they  come, 
Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and  hearkens. 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O  my  friends ! 

I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance. 
And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 

His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  assistance. 

U  any  thonght  of  mine,  or  snng  or  told. 
Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation. 

Ye  have  repaid  mc  hack  a  thousand  fold, 
By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token, 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone. 

Friends  are  around  us,  thongh  no  word  be  spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart's  deep  history, 
In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand,  — 

One  touch  of  fire,  — and  all  the  rest  is  mystery  ! 


,c,  ccc   c       c      c^    PREDICATION. 

"Kie  pleasanfc  books, 't'hat  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 

And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces  ! 

Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold, 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and  semblance ; 
Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old. 

But  live  forever  young  in  my  remembrance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away ! 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever. 
When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay, 

As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a  river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends, 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  nations. 

But  the  endeavor  for  the  selfsame  ends, 

With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  your  warm  fireside,  when  the  lamps  are  lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest, 
Nor  sftind  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited ! 


HOUSEHOLD    POEMS. 

HYMN  TO  THE   NIGHT. 

'Axrwaain,  rpiXXurro^* 

I   HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marhle  halls ! 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes. 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Peace !  Peace  !  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 


A  PSALM   OF   LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE  PSALMIST. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
"  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! " 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow. 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
B'ut  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave^. 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  however  pleasant ! 
Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present! 
\^^  ^  ■  Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead ! 


THE  REAPER  AND   THE  FLOWERS. 

Lives  of  ppeat  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  dcpartinfy,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  np  and  doing. 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing. 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

THERE  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 
And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath. 
And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  nought  that  is  fair  ?  "  saith  he ; 

"  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  1 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they. 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 
1* 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

«  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 

She  knew  she  'should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath. 

The  Keaper  came  that  day ; 
'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth. 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 


THE  LIGHT   OF  STARS.  n 


THE   LIGHT  OF   STARS. 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 
And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 
Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven. 

But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 
And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
O  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A  hero's  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies. 

The  .shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength !  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand. 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast. 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still. 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed ; 


12  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art. 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

O  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this. 
And  thou  shalt  know  erelong, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  ANGELS. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered. 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted. 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife. 
By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly. 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore. 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly. 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 


FLOWERS,  13 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  mc, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 

Comes  that  messenger  divine, 
Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 

Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes. 
Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like. 

Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended. 

Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 
Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended. 

Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


FLOWERS. 

SPAKE  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden. 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Khine, 
When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and  golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history. 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld ; 
Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery. 

Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 


14 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth,  —  these  golden  flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day. 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining. 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seeming. 
Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers. 

Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 
Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing. 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born  ; 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  overflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn  ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing. 
And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  field. 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing. 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys. 
Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to  drink ; 


FLOWERS. 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings. 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons. 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection. 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


15 


l6  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 


THE   BELEAGUERED    CITY. 

I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old  marvellous  tale. 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 
That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound. 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen. 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace; 
The  mistlike  banners  clasped  the  air. 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer. 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star. 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 

That  strange  and  mystic  scroll. 
That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 

Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  TEAR.         if 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice,  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray. 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell. 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star. 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


MIDNIGHT   MASS   FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR. 

YES,  the  Year  is  growing  old. 
And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared ! 
Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  —  sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 
Caw !  caw !  the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe ! 


18  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing ;  "  Pray  for  this  poor  soul. 
Pray,  —  pray ! " 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain. 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers !  — 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain. 
All  in  vain ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather. 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  —  a  king ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice ! 
His  joy !  his  last !  0,  the  old  man  gray, 

Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice. 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith,  — 
To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 

Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath,  — . 
"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me !  " 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies ; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies. 
No  mist  or  stain ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

■Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 

"  Vex  not  his  ghost ! " 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR    THE  DYING   YEAR. 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind ! 

Howl !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 

Sweep  the  red  leaves  away ! 
Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 

0  Soul !  could  thus  decay. 
And  be  swept  away ! 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast. 
There  shall  be  a  darker  day ; 
c      And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast, 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson ! 
Christe,  eleyson ! 


19 


20  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 


THE   RAINY   DAY. 

THE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall. 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  wfeary ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all. 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall,     . 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


IT   IS   NOT  ALWAYS    MAY. 

NO  HAY  PAJAROS  EN  LOS  NIDOS  DE  ANTANO. 

Spanish  Proverb. 

THE  sun  is  bright,  —  the  air  is  clear. 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 
And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  blue-bird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows. 

It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 
Where  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 

Th«  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 


THE   VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH.  ai 

All  things  are  new ;  —  the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves ;  — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 

The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 
And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 

The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme. 

Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay ; 
Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 

For  O  !  it  is  not  always  JVIay  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 

To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 
For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth. 

There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 


THE  VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he. 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long. 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat. 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face. 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night. 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge. 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar. 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chafi*  from  a  threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church. 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice. 
Singing  in  the  village  choir. 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 


It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice. 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 


GOD'S-ACRE.  23 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done,    • 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 


GOD'S-ACRE. 

I   LIKE  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
Tlie  burial-ground  God's- Acre !     It  is  just ; 
It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 
And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God's- Acre !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed,  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts. 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas !  no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

Tn  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth ; 

And  each  bright  blossom,  mingle  its  perfume 

With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed  on  earth. 


24  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  the  sod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 
This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  grow ! 


TO   THE   RIVER   CHARLES. 

RIVER !  that  in  silence  windest 
Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling. 

Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 
I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 

Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me.  Silent  River  1 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver ; 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide. 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter. 

When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 
I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter. 

And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 

Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 
From  celestial  seas  above  thee 

Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 


THE  GOBLET   OF  LIFE. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this ;  —  thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  mo 
Closer,  closer,  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start. 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

'T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  Kiver ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver. 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


THE   GOBLET   OF    LIFE. 

FILLED  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim. 
And  chant  a  melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers,  —  no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen. 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art. 
Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart. 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart. 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 

Are  running  all  to  waste. 

2 


25 


26  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 
With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers. 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press, 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give ! 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show. 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe, 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow. 
He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight. 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 
To  see  his  foeman*s  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light,  —  for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 


MAIDENHOOD.  27 

O  suffering,  sad  humanity ! 

0  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery. 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die. 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried ! 

1  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Where  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf, 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief. 

The  alarm,  —  the  struggle,  —  the  relief,  — 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

MAIDEN !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Grolden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet. 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet. 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance. 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision. 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  1  ^ 


28  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more. 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar "? 

O,  thou  child  of  many  prayers ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  —  Life  hath  snares,  - 

Care  and  age  come  unawares ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune. 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth. 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal. 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
.   For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art 


EXCELSIOR, 


29 


THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

'  His  brow  was  sad ;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  faulchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
'     And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan. 

Excelsior !  « 


30  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 

"  Try  not  the  Pass  ! "  the  old  man  said ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, . 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide !  ^' 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"  O  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast ! " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh. 
Excelsior ! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height. 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air. 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found. 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device. 
Excelsior ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray. 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


A   GLEAM    OF  SUNSHINE.  31 


A  GLEAM   OF   SUNSHINE. 

THIS  is  the  place.     Stand  still,  my  steed, 
Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 
The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee, 

O  gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees, 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies. 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they  ; 
One  of  God's  holy  messengers 

Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet. 
The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

"  Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares. 

Of  earth  and  folly  born  !  " 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 


32  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

Bj  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind, 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay. 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book^s  fluttering  leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered. 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him. 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas  !  the  place  seems  changed  ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart. 
Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high. 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh ; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past. 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 


RAIN    IN    SUMMER. 

HOW  beautiful  is  the  rain ! 
After  the  dust  and  heat, 
In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 
In  the  narrow  lane. 
How  beautiful  is  the  rain ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 

Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys. 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

2*  c 


35 


34 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where,  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain. 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread. 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale. 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well  watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees. 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain. 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain. 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 


TO  A  CHILD.  33 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound. 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done. 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven. 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear. 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth. 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


TO   A    CHILD. 

DEAR  child !  how  radiant  on  thy  mother's  knee, 
With  merry-making  eyes  and  jocund  smiles. 
Thou  gazes  t  at  the  painted  tiles. 
Whose  figures  grace. 
With  many  a  grotesque  form  and  face, 


36  •  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery ! 
The  lady  with  the  gay  macaw, 
The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 
With  bearded  lip  and  chin ; 
And,  leaning  idly  o'er  his  gate, 
Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 
The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a  look  of  proud  command 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  little  hand 

The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells. 

Making  a  merry  tune  ! 

Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 

That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees. 

Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 

Dashed  it  on  Coromanders  sand  ! 

Those  silver  bells 

Reposed  of  yore, 

As  shapeless  ore, 

Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 

Of  darksome  mines. 

In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place. 

Beneath  huge  Chimborazo's  base, 

Or  Potosi's  o'erhanging  pines  ! 

And  thus  for  thee,  O  little  child. 

Through  many  a  danger  and  escape. 

The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape ; 

For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote. 

Beneath  the  burning,  tropic  clime. 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild  goat, 

Himself  as  swift  and  wild, 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute. 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root. 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 

The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid, 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  pirate.  Time. 

But,  lo !  thy  door  is  left  ajar! 
Thou  hearest  footsteps  from-  afar ! 


TO  A   CHILD.  37 

And,  at  the  sound, 

Thou  turnest  round 

With  quick  and  questioning  eyes, 

Like  one,  who,  in  a  foreign  land, 

Beholds  on  every  hand  ' 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently. 

Thou  strivest,  strugglest,  to  be  free. 

The  four  walls  of  thy  nursery 

Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

No  more  thy  mother's  smiles, 

No  more  the  painted  tiles. 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the  floor 

That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before ; 

Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 

Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 

The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice 

Makes  the  old  walls 

Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 

With  the  joy  of  thy  young  heart, 

O'er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 

No  shadows  of  sadness 

From  the  sombre  background  of  memory  start. 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 
One  whom  memory  oft  recalls. 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 
And  yonder  meadows,  broad  and  damp, 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a  burning  belt. 
Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs. 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares. 
Sounded  his  majestic  tread ; 
Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom. 
Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 


38  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

But  what  are  these  grave  thoughts  to  thee  ? 
Out,  out !  into  the  open  air ! 
Thy  only  dream  is  liberty, 
Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 
I  see  thee  eager  at  thy  play. 
Now  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree, 
With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they ; 
And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks, 
Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants, 
As  restless  as  the  bee. 
'  Along  the  garden  walks. 
The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage-wheels  I  trace ; 
And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 
Whole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents. 
That  rise  like  golden  domes 
Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 
Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants. 
Ah,  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 
Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 
Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 
These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm ! 

What !  tired  already !  with  those  suppliant  looks, 
And  voice  more  beautiful  than  a  poet's  books. 
Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 
*  Thou  comest  back  to  parley  with  repose ! 


TO  A    CHILD.  39 

This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 
With  its  o'erhanging  golden  canopy 
Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues, 
And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of  dews, 
Shall  for  a  season  be  our  place  of  rest. 
Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole's  pendent  nest. 
From  which  the  laughing  birds  have  taken  wing, 
By  thee  abandoned,  hangs  thy  vacant  swing. 
Dream-like  the  waters  of  the  river  gleam ; 
A  sailless  vessel  drops  adown  the  stream. 
And  like  it,  to  a  sea  as  wide  and  deep. 
Thou  driftest  gently  down  the  tides  of  sleep. 

0  child !  O  new-born  denizen 
Of  life's  great  city !  on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 
Like  a  celestial  benison  ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand,  ^ 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the  future's  undiscovered  land. 

1  see  its  valves  expand. 
As  at  the  touch  of  Fate ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate,  • 

Into  that  darkness,  blank  and  drear. 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I  launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 

Freighted  with  hope  and  fear ; 

As  upon  subterranean  streams, 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark. 

Men  sometimes  launch  a  fragile  bark. 

Laden  with  flickering  fire. 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams, 

Until  at  length  they  disappear, 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 

Dare  I  to  cast  thy  horoscope ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears  ;* 

A  little  strip  of  silver  light, 


40  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 

And  widening  outward  into  night 

The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years ; 

And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A  luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim, 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here, 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere ; 

A  prophecy  and  intimation, 

A  pale  and  feeble  adumbration. 

Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 

Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah !  if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught, 
Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 
With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toil,  — 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 
Until  the  overburdened  brain. 
Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain, 
Like  a  jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power,  — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour, 
When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed, 
From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

*And  if  a  more  auspicious  fate 
On  thy  advancing  steps  await. 
Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 
To  linger  by  the  laborer's  side ; 
With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 
To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 
O'er  desert  sand,  o'er  dangerous  moor. 

Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 

Without  reward ;  for  thou  shalt  learn 

The  wisdom  early  to  discern 

True  beauty  in  utility ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore. 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith's  door, 

And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 


THE  BRIDGE.  41 

The  anvils  with  a  different  note, 
Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 
Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue. 
The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 
And  formed  the  seven-chorded  lyre. 

Enough !  I  will  not  play  the  Seer ; 
I  will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hope,  forerunning  Fear, 
And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope.       w 
Thy  destiny  remains  untold ;  * 

For,  like  Acestes'  shaft  of  old. 
The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies, 
And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


THE   BRIDGE. 

I   STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight. 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 
And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city. 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me. 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 
Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 
Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay. 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away ; 


42  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

*As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 
The  sea-weed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 
Among  the  wooden  piers, 

A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 
That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 

*  In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 
I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky ! 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me. 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  it  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers. 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow. 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 


SEA' WEED. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow ! 

And  forever  and  forever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows, 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear. 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


SEA-WEED. 

WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 
The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  equinox. 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges. 
Laden  with  sea-weed  from  the  rocks  ; 

From  Bermuda's  reefs ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges. 
In  some  far-off",  bright  Azore ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ;  — 


43 


44  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness. 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted,  . 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 
Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 
.  Till  at  length  in  books  recorded. 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY, 


45 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 

THE  day  is  ending, 
The  night  is  descending ; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 
The  river  dead. 


Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences  ; 
The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o'er  the  plain ; 


46  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 
Slowly  passes 
A  funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are' trailing, 
My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 


THE   DAY   IS   DONE. 

THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist. 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o*er  me. 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem. 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling. 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music. 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer. 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor. 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care. 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice. 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day. 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


47 


48  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

I   SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air. 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song "? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


THE   OLD    CLOCK   ON   THE   STAIRS. 

L'6ternit6  est  une  pendule,  dont  le  balancier  dit  et  redit  sans  cesse  ces 
deux  mots  seulement,  dans  le  silence  des  tombeaux :  "  Toujours  !  jamais  I 
Jamais  !  toujours  !  " 

Jacques  Bridaine. 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw. 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever ! " 


THE   OLD  CLOCK   ON   THE  STAIRS, 


49 


Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 

From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 

Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 

Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever  ! " 

3 


50 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep^s  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
'  lAnd  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamher-door,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never —  forever !  " 

"Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth. 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth. 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
Jt  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 

*  <  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  '* 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be   • 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared  ; 
.  The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever ! " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played. 

There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed. 

O  precious  hours  !  O  golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time ! 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold. 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever ! " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white. 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below. 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 


THE  EVENING  STAR, 

And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever ! " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled. 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  1 
As  in  the  days  long-since  gone  by. 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 

Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 

And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  — 

Forever  there,  but  never  here ! 

The  horologe  of  Eternity 

Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever ! " 


THE   EVENING   STAR. 

LO  !  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 
Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines. 
Like  a  fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest ! 
And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines. 
With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love  oppressed. 
O  my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus  ! 
My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love ! 


51 


52  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

My  best  and  gentlest  lady !  even  thus, 

As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 

Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night. 

And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the  light. 


AUTUMN. 

THOU  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain. 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 
And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain  ! 
Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold ;  thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast  domain. 
Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
So  long  beneath  the  heaven's  overhanging  eaves, 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer's  prayers  attended ; 
Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves ; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid. 
Thine, almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the  golden  leaves ! 


THE    SECRET   OF   THE   SEA. 

AH !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 
As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea ! 
All  the  old  romantic  legends. 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sendal, 
Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore ; 

And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 
And  the  answer  from  the  shore ! 


THE  SECRET  OF   THE  SEA,  53 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 

Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 
Of  the  noble  Count  Amaldos 

And  the  sailor's  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a  sea-beach. 

Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines. 
With  a  soft,  monotonous  cadence. 

Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines ;  — 

Telling  how  the  Count  Amaldos^ 

With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
Saw  a  fair  and  stately  galley, 

Steering  onward  to  the  land ;  — 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 

Chant  a  song  so  wild  and  clear. 
That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 

Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong,  — 

"  Helmsman !  for  the  love  of  heaven. 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song ! " 

"  Wouldst  thou,"  —  so  the  helmsman  answered, 

"  Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 

Comprehend  its  mystery  ! " 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon. 

In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 
I  behold  that  stately  galley. 

Hear  those  mournful  melodies ; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 

For  the  secret  of  the  sea. 
And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 

Sends  a  thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


54 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 


TWILIGHT. 

THE  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 
And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window. 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 


And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising'  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE, 

What  tale  do  the'roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement. 
Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean. 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother. 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE. 

THE  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 
And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away. 
The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I  can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 

A  speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  !  how  bright. 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air, 

Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light, 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  its  glare  ! 

Not  one  alone ;  from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  verge. 

Starts  into  life  a  dim,  gigantic  shape. 

Holding  its  lantern  o'er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave. 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands. 
The  night-o'ertaken  mariner  to  save. 


sj 


56  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending  and  bowing  o'er  the  billowy  swells, 

And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  bum. 

They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  farewells. 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and  their  sails 
Gleam  for  a  moment  only  in  the  blaze, 

And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a  child. 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and  sink ; 

And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild. 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o'er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 

Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night. 

Burns  on  forevermore  that  quenchless  flame. 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light ! 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of  peace ; 

It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 
And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a  fleece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ;  the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain. 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries. 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within. 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  and  dies. 

A  new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock. 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock. 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 


THE  FIRE   OF  DRIFT-WOOD,  57 

"  Sail  on ! "  it  says,  "  sail  on,  ye  stately  ships ! 

And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean  span ; 
Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 

Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man !  " 


THE   FIRE   OF   DRIFT-WOOD. 

WE  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 
Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold. 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port,  — 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town,  — 

The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort,  — 
The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night. 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene. 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends. 
When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain. 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart. 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express. 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 
3* 


58  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships. 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main,  — 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. . 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames,  — 
The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach,  — 

The  gusty  blast,  —  the  bickering  flames,  — 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 

Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain,  — 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O  flames  that  glowed !  O  hearts  that  yearned ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin. 
The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned. 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 


ItESIGNATION, 


RESIGNATION. 

THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended. 
But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoever  defended. 
But  has  one  vacant  chair ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying. 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !  These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise. 

But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions- 
Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps. 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death !  What  seems  so  is  transition. 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian. 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion. 

By  guardian  angels  led. 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution. 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 


59 


6o 


HOUSEHOLD  POEM 8. 


Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 
Behold  her  growa  more  fair. 


THE  BUILDERS.  6l 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  nnbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed. 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


THE   BUILDERS. 

ALL  are  architects  of  Fate, 
Working  in  these  walls  of  Time ; 
Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 


62  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 

Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 
For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well. 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, . 

Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 
Broken  stairways,. where  the  feet 

Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure. 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 
And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


THE   OPEN   WINDOW. 


63 


THE   OPEN   WINDOW. 

THE  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 
The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 

Wide  open  to  the  air ; 
But  the  faces  of  the  children, 

They  were  no  longer  there. 


64  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates. 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches. 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me. 
He  could  not  understand 

Why  closer  in  mine,  ah !  closer, 
I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand ! 


SUSPIRIA. 

TAKE  them,  O  Death !  and  bear  away 
Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own ! 
Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone ! 

Take  them,  O  Grave !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves ! 

Take  them,  0  great  Eternity ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust, 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust. 


THE  LADDER   OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE,  65 


THE   LADDER   OF   ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

SAINT  AUGUSTINE  !  well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  cau  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame ! 

• 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents. 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design. 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less ; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine. 
And  all  occasions  of  excess ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill ;  all  evil  deeds. 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill  ; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ;  — 

All  these  must  first  be.  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more. 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 


66  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies. 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept, 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight. 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  lonig  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past, 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


HAUNTED    HOUSES. 

ALL  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses.     Through  the  open  doors 
The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide. 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors. 

We  meet  them  at  the  door-way,  on  the  stair. 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go. 

Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 


HAUNTED  HOUSES.  67 

There  are  more  guests  at  table,  than  the  hosts 

Invited ;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I  see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  I  hear ; 

He  but  perceives  what  is ;  while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands ; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  dusty  hands, 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 

The  spirit-world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 

Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and  vapors  dense 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 

By  opposite  attractions  and  desires ; 
The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 

And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 

These  perturbations,  this  perpetual  jar 

Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high, 
Come  from  the  influence  of  an  unseen  star, 

An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon  from  some  dark  gate  of  cloud 
Throws  o^er  the  sea  a  floating  bridge  of  light. 

Across  whose  trembling  planks  our  fancies  crowd 
Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night,  — 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends 
A  bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with  this. 

O'er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways  and  bends. 
Wander  our  thoughts  above  the  dark  abyss. 


68  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 


IN   THE   CHURCHYARD  AT   CAMBRIDGE. 

IN  the  village  cKurchyard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 
No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs ; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 
But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 

Was  she  a  lady  of  high  degree. 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

^nd  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours  ? 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity. 
And  lowliness  and  humility. 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  ? 

Who  shall  tell  us  ?     No  one  speaks  ; 
No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks. 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride. 
At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked ; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter  1  —  And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,  faults,  and  errors  ? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares. 
In  your  own  short-comings  and  despairs. 

In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors ! 


THE   TWO  ANGELS. 

TWO  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 
Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morning  broke ; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 

The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of  smoke. 


THE   TWO  ANGELS, 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 
Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white ; 

But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as  with  flame, 
And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way ; 

Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt  oppressed, 
"  Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  betray 

The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at  rest ! " 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 

The  waters  sink  before  an  earthquake's  shock. 


69 


70  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me. 

And  now  returned  with  threefold  strength  again. 

The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly  guest. 

And  listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard  God's  voice ; 

And,  knowing  whatsoe'er  he  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  filled  the  house  with  light, 
"  My  jerrand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,"  he  said ; 

And  ere  I  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

'T  was  at  thy  door,  O  friend  !  and  not  at  mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine. 

Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like  Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin ; 

And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened  room, 
Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went  in. 

All  is  of  God !     If  he  but  wave  his  hand. 

The  mists  collect,  the  rain  falls  thick  and  loud, 

Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 
Lo  !  he  looks  back  from  the  departing  cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his ; 

Without  his  leave  they  pass  no  threshold  o'er ; 
Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing  this. 

Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the  door  ? 


MY  LOST   YOUTH. 


DAYLIGHT  AND   MOONLIGHT. 

IN  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 
Yesterday  I  saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a  schoolboy's  paper  kite. 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 
I  read  a  Poet's  mystic  lay ; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a  phantom,  or  a  ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a  passion  died  away, 
And  the  night,  serene  and  still, 
Fell  on  village,  vale,  and  hill. 

Then  the  moon,  in  all  her  pride. 
Like  a  spirit  glorified. 
Filled  and  overflowed-  the  night 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet's  song  again 
Passed  like  music  through  my  brain; 
Night  interpreted  to  me 
All  its  grace  and  mystery. 


MY   LOST  YOUTH. 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town. 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 


71 


72 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees. 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas. 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song. 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips. 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips. 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships. 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sun-rise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away. 

How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay. 

Where  they  in  battle  died. 


MY  LOST   YOUTH.  73 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy^s  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves. 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods  ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Came  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms'  that  dart 

Across  the  schoolboy's  brain ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 

And  a  mist  before  the  eye.  ^ 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet. 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
4 


74  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair. 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there. 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song. 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


THE   GOLDEN    MILESTONE. 

LEAFLESS  are  the  trees ;  their  purple  branches 
Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of  coral. 
Rising  silent 
In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  Winter  sunset. 

From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village. 
Like  the' Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 

Smoky  columns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 

At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  fire-light ; 
Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glimmer. 

Social  watch-fires 
Answering  one  another  through  the  darkness. 

On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine-tree 

For  its  freedom 
Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in  them. 


THE  GOLDEN  MILE  STONE. 

Bv  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 
Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne'er  restore  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers. 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 

Asking  blindly 
Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

In  whose  scenes  Appear  two  actors  only. 

Wife  and  husband, 
And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort. 
Wives  and  children,  with  fair,  thoughtful  faces. 

Waiting,  watching 
For  a  well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  Golden  Mile-stone ; 
Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  measures 

Every  distance 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it ; 

Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering  night-wind. 

As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  nott 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion. 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city. 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 

We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations. 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculptures. 

But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations ! 


75 


76  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 


A 


DAYBREAK. 

WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  0  mists,  make  room  for  me." 


It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone/' 

And  hurried  landward  far  away. 
Crying,  "  Awake !  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing. 
And  said,  ''  O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer. 
Your  clarion  blow ;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  mom.' 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"Awake,  O  bell !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh. 
And  said,  "  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie." 


THE  ROPE  WALK. 


n 


THE   ROPEWALK. 


IN  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 
Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin. 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin 
Dropping,  each  a  hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door ; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 
Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane ; 


78      •  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 

And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 
All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun ; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing. 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing. 

First  before  my  vision  pass ; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands. 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks. 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress. 
With  a  faded  loveliness. 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a  homestead  among  farms, 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 

Drawing  water  from  a  well ; 
As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face. 

As  at  some  magician's  spell. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower. 
Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour. 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet. 
And  again,  in  swift  retreat. 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 


8ANDALPH0N,  .    79 

Then  within  a  prison-yard, 
Faces  fixed,  and  stem,  and  hard. 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth ; 
Ah  !  it  is  the  gallows-tree  ! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth  ! 

Then  a  school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light. 

And  an  eager,  upward  look ; 
Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field ; 
'Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed ; 

And  an  angler  by  a  brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
"Wrecks  that  float  o*er  unknown  seas, 

Anchors  dragged  through  faithless  sand ;  . 
Sea-fog  drifting  overhead. 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead. 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I  behold. 
These,  and  many  left  untold. 

In  that  building  long  and  low ; 
While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound. 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


SANDALPHON. 

HAVE  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old. 
In  the  Legends  the  Kabbins  have  told 
Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air,  — 
Have  you,  read  it,  —  the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory,. 
Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  ? 


8o    ,  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 

Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  ? 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chaunt  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress ; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder. 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng. 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song. 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow. 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below ;  — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore. 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 

In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer ; 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses. 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands. 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands. 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal. 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know,  — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show. 

Of  the  ancient  Kabbinical  lore ; 
Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition. 
The  beautiful,  strange  superstition. 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 


THE   CHILDREN'S  HOUR.  ,     8l 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white. 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars. 
Among  them  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain. 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden. 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


THE    CHILDREN'S    HOUR. 

BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight. 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower. 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations. 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened. 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight. 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair. 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  AUegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

4*  I 


82  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse -Tower  on  the  Ehine ! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day. 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away ! 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

OUT  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 
Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments  shaken, 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare. 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
Silent,  and  soft,  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 


A  BAY  OF  SUNSHINE.  83 

Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair. 

Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded. 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 


A  DAY   OF   SUNSHINE. 

OGIFT  of  God !     O  perfect  day  : 
Whereon  shall  no  man  work,  but  play ; 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me. 
Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be ! 

Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through  every  nerve,  through  every  vein, 
I  feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 

I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphonies  ; 
I  see  the  branches  downward  bent, 
Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky. 
Where  through  a  sapphire  sea  the  sun 
Sails  like  a  golden  galleon. 


84  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Towards  yonder  cloud-land  in  the  West, 
Towards  yonder  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 
Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds !  and  waft  through  all  the  rooms 
The  snow-flakes  of  the  cherry-blooms  ! 
Blow,  winds !  and  bend  within  my  reach 
The  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach ! 

O  Life  and  Love !     O  happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is  song ! 
O  heart  of  man !  canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  ? 


SOMETHING   LEFT   UNDONE. 

LABOR  with  what  zeal  we  will. 
Something  still  remains  undone, 
Something  uncompleted  still 
Waits  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

By  the  bedside,  on  the  stair. 

At  the  threshold,  near  the  gates. 

With  its  menace  or  its  prayer. 
Like  a  mendicant  it  waits ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  go  away ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  be  gainsaid  ; 
By  the  cares  of  yesterday 

Each  to-day  is  heavier  made ; 

Till  at  length  the  burden  seems 

Greater  than  our  strength  can  bear. 

Heavy  as  the  weight  of  dreams. 
Pressing  on  us  everywhere. 


WEARINESS.  85 


And  we  stand  from  day  to  day, 
Like  the  dwarfs  of  times  gone  by, 

Who,  as  Northern  legends  say. 
On  their  shoulders  held  the  sky. 


WEARINESS. 

O'  LITTLE  feet !  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 
Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load ; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin. 
Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road ! 

O  little  hands !  that,  weak  or  strong. 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask ; 
I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O  little  hearts  !  that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires ; 
Mine  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned. 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

O  little  souls  !  as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine ; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years. 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine ! 


86 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 


CHILDREN. 

COME  to  me,  O  ye  children ! 
For  I  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 
Have  vanished  quite  away. 


CHILDREN.  87 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sunshine,. 

In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet's  flow, 
But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 

And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah !  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 

If  the  children  were  no  more? 
We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 

Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food. 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood,  — 

That  to  the  world  are  children ; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings. 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books. 
When  compared  with  your  caresses. 

And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said ; 
For  ye  are  living  poems. 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 


88  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 


THE   BRIDGE   OF   CLOUD. 

BURN,  O  evening  hearth,  and  waken 
Pleasant  visions,  as  of  old ! 
Though  the  house  by  winds  be  shaken, 
Safe  "I  keep  this  room  of  gold ! 

Ah !  no  longer  wizard  Fancy 

Builds  its  castles  in  the  air, 
liuring  me  by  necromancy 

Up  the  never-ending  stair. 

But,  instead,  it  builds  me  bridges 

Over  many  a  dark  ravine. 
Where  beneath  the  gusty  ridges 

Cataracts  dash  and  roar  unseen. 

And  I  cross  them,  little  heeding 
Blast  of  wind  or  torrent*^  roar, 

As  I  follow  the  receding 

Footsteps  that  have  gone  before. 

Naught  avails  the  imploring  gesture, 
Naught  avails  the  cry  of  pain ! 

When  I  touch  the  flying  vesture, 
'T  is  the  gray  robe  of  the  rain. 

Baffled  I  return,  and,  leaning 

O'er  the  parapets  of  cloud. 
Watch  the  mist  that  intervening 

Wraps  the  valley  in  its  shroud. 

And  the  sounds  of  life  ascending 
Faintly,  vaguely,  meet  the  ear. 

Murmur  of  bells  and  voices  blending 
With  the  rush  of  waters  near. 


PALINGENESIS.  89 

Well  I  know  what  there  lies  hidden, 

Every  tower  and  town  and  farm, 
And  again  the  land  forbidden 

E-eassumes  its  vanished  charm. 

Well  I  know  the  secret  places, 

And  the  nests  in  hedge  and  tree ; 
At  what  doors  are  friendly  faces, 

In  what  hearts  a  thought  of  me. 

Through  the  mist  and  darkness  sinking. 
Blown  by  wind  and  beaten  by  shower, 

Down  I  fling  the  thought  I  'm  thinking, 
Down  I  toss  this  Alpine  flower. 


PALINGENESIS. 

I  LAY  upon  the  headland-height,  and  listened 
To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 
In  caverns  under  me, 
And  watched  the  waves,  that  tossed  and  fled  and  glistened, 
Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 
Melted  away  in  mist. 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  from  sleep,  I  started ; 
For  round  about  me  all  the  sunny  capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 
Of  those  whom  I  had  known  in  days  departed, 
Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which  gleams 

On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 

A  moment  only,  and  the  light  and  glory 
Faded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 

Stood  lonely  as  before ; 
And  the  wild  roses  of  the  promontory 
Around  me  shuddered  in  the  wind,  and  shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 


90  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  embers 
Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 

And  cunning  alchemists 
Could  recreate  the  rose  with  all  its  members 
From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the  bloom, 

Without  the  lost  perfume. 

Ah  me !  what  wonder-working,  occult  science 
Can  from  the  ashes  in  our  hearts  once  more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore  ? 
What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 
To  time  and  change,  and  for  a  single  hour 

Renew  this  phantom-flower  ? 

"  O,  give  me  back,"  I  cried,  "  the  vanished  splendors, 
The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant  strife. 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 
Bounds  o'er  its  rocky  channel,  and  surrenders 
The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 

Into  the  unknown  deep  ! " 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a  lamentation. 
Like  some  old  prophet  wailing,  and  it  said, 

"  Alas  !  thy  youth  is  dead  ! 
It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no  pulsation. 
In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 

It  lies  forever  cold !  " 

Then  said  I,  "  From  its  consecrated  cerements 
I  will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain ; 
But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  endearments. 
Go  on  my  way,  like  one  who  looks  before. 

And  turns  to  weep  no  more." 

Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  plantations 
Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the  glow 
Of  sunsets  burning  low ; 


THE  BROOK. 

Beneath  what  midnight  skies,  whose  constellations 
Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 
This  world  and  the  unseen ! 

Amid  what  friendfy  greetings  and  caresses, 
What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet  not  mine, 

What  bowers  of  rest  divine  ; 
To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses. 
What  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and  loss, 

The  bearing  of  what  cross 

I  do  not  know ;  nor  will  I  vainly  question 
Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which  hold 

The  story  still  untold. 
But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and  good  heed. 

Until  "  The  End  "  I  read. 


THE   BROOK. 

FROM   THE  SPANISH. 

LAUGH  of  the  mountain !  —  lyre  of  bird  and  tree ! 
Pomp  of  the  meadow !  mirror  of  the  morn ! 
The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 
The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee ! 
Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays, 
The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems. 
To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shepherd's  gaze. 
How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles  count ! 
How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  current ! 
O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by ! 
Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in  limpid  fount ! 


91 


9? 


HOUSEHOLD  POEMS, 
SONG   OF   THE    SILENT   LAND. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF   SALIS. 

INTO  the  Silent  Land ! 
Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Thither,  O  thither. 
Into  the  Silent  Land  1 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning  visions 

Of  beauteous  souls  !     The  Future's  pledge  and  band 

Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand, 

Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

O  Land !     O  Land ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Into  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


THE   TWO  LOCKS   OF  HAIR.  93 

THE   TWO   LOCKS   OF   HAIR. 

FROM  THE   GEBMAN  OF  PFIZER. 

A  YOUTH,  light-hearted  and  content, 
I  wander  through  the  world ; 
Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent 
And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Yet  oft  I  dream,  that  once  a  wife 

Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 
And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 

A  blessed  child  I  rocked. 

I  wake !     Away  that  dream,  —  away ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 
So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 

It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought ;  • 

To  a  grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought ; 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eyes  and  see ; 
And  wander  through  the  world  once  more, 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks,  —  and  they  are  wondrous  fair,  — 

Left  me  that  vision  mild ; 
The  brown  is  from  the  mother's  hair. 

The  i)lond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold. 

Pale  grows  the  evening-red ; 
And  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead. 


94  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 


THE   SINGERS. 

GOD  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men. 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a  youth,  with  soul  of  fire, 

Held  in  his  hand  a  golden  lyre ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams, 

Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 

The  second,  with  a  bearded  face, 
Stood  singing  in  the  market-place. 
And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A  gray,  old  man,  the  third  and  last. 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast. 
While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be ; 
For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  "I  see 

No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree ; 

I  gave  a  various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 

"  These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might. 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS.  95 


CHRISTMAS   BELLS. 

I  HEARD  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 
And  wild  and  sweet 
The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  way. 
The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chime, 

A  chant  sublime 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  1 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth. 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South, 

And  with  the  sound 

The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  hearth-stones  of  a  continent. 

And  made  forlorn 

The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

And  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head ; 
"  There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said ; 

"  For  hate  is  strong 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! " 


96  HOUSEHOLD  POEMS. 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep : 
<*  God  is  not  dead ;  nor  doth  he  sleep  ! 

The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 
With  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! " 


CamlM-idge  ;  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


BY 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


With  Illustrations  by 

D.  Maclise,  T.  Creswick,  S.  Eytinge,  C.  A.  Barry, 
H.  Fenn,  and  G.  Perkins. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
I  87  I. 


"  It  is  my  wish  that  with  Messrs.  Tickn'or  and  Fields  alone  the 
right  of  publishing  my  books  in  America  should  rest."  • 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


University    Press: 

Welch,   Bigelow,   and  Company, 

Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


> 

Page 

Comb  into  thb  Garden,  Maud 5 

A  Voice  by  the  Cedar-Tree 8 

0  let  the  Solid  Ground .        '9 

Birds  in  the  High  Hall-Garden lo 

Go  NOT,  Happy  Day ii 

The  Bugle  Song iz 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 14 

Song  to  the  Swallow    ' 15 

Enid's  Song 16 

Vivien's  Song ,       .       ,       ,  16 

Elaine's  Song .  17 

Song  of  the  Novice  to  Queen  Guineyere        ....  18 

King  out,  Wild  Bells 18 

Break,  Break,  Break 20 

Come  not,  when  I  am  Dead 21 

The  Poet's  Song 22 

Lilian 2Z 

The  Owl 24 

To  THE  Same 25 

A  Spirit  haunts 26 

Claribel 27 

A  Pirge 28 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana 30 

The  Miller's  Daughter 34 

The  Merman '     •  35 

The  Mermaid 37 

The  Sisters 39 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  Net 40 

As  thro'  the  Land  at  Eve  we  went 41 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Sweet  and  Low 42 

TuY  Voice  is  heard 43 

Lady  Clara  Verb  de  Verb 4j 

The  Death  op  the  Old  Year 46 

Home  they  brought  her  Warrior  dead 48 

Our  Enemies  have  fallen 49 

The  May  Queen 50 

New  Year's  Eve 52 

The  Sea  Fairies   ..........  58 

The  Deserted  House 60 

Ask  me  no  more 61 

Now  sleeps  the  Crimson  Petal  .         ......  62 

Come  down,  0  Maid .       .       .  6j 

The  Golden  Year 64 

St.  Agnes'  Eve 65 

A  Farewell ■>        .        .       .        .67 

The  Beggar  Maid         .        .        .        , 68 

Move  Eastward,  Happy  Earth 69 

The  Skipping-Rope 70 

The  Sailor-Boy 71 

The  Islet 72 

The  Ringlet ^       ....  73 

The  Brook 75 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra 78 

Odb 80 

My  Life  is  full  of  Weary  Days 82 

Home  they  brought  him  Slain  with  Spears    ....  82 

Ckadlb  Sono 83 


SONGS    FOR    ALL    SEASONS. 


COME   INTO   THE   GARDEN,   MAUD. 

COME  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown ; 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky,  — 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves. 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune : 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 


SONGS  FOP.  ALL  SEASONS. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

"With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 


COME  INTO   THE   GARDEN,  MAUD. 

But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  salce, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawu  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls. 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


SONGS  FOB  ALL  SEASONS. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near  " ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  *'  She  is  late  ^* ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear  " ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


A  VOICE   BY  THE   CEDAR-TREE. 

A  VOICE  by  the  cedar-tree. 
In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 
She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 
A  passionate  ballad,  gallant  and  gay, 
A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet^s  call  I 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array. 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


0  LET  THE  SOLID   GROUND. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 
And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 
And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green, 
Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace, 
Singing  of  Deaths  and  of  Honor  that  cannot  die. 
Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and  mean 
And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice ! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still !  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a  choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore. 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


O   LET  THE   SOLID   GROUND. 

OLET  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 
Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet. 
Then  let  come  what  come  may. 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure. 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 


lO  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS, 

Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 

That  there  is  one  to  love  me ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may 
To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 


BIRDS   IN   THE   HIGH    HALL-GARDEN. 

BIRDS  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 
Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

They  were  crying  and  calling. 

Where  was  Maud  ?  in  our  wood ; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her. 
Gathering  woodland  lilies. 

Myriads  blow  together. 

Birds  in  our  wood  sang 

Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 
Maud  is  here,  here,  here 

In  among  the  lilies. 

I  kissed  her  slender  hand, 

She  took  the  kiss  sedately; 
Maud  is  not  seventeen. 

But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  fixvor ! 
O  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 

If  lowliness  could  save  her. 


GO  NOT,  HAPPY  DAY.  n 

I  know  the  way  she  went 

Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 
For  her  feet  have  touchM  the  meadows 

And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 

Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 
Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charles  is  snarling. 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 

You  are  not  her  darling. 


GO   NOT,   HAPPY  DAY. 

GO  not,  happy  day, 
From  the  shining  fields. 
Go  not,  happy  day, 
Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Kosy  is  the  West, 
Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks. 
And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 
Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 
O'er  the  blowing  ships. 


12  SONGS  FOB  ALL  SEASONS, 

Over  blowing  seas, 
Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 
Blush  it  thro'  the  West; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 
By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 
Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 
Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 
Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
''  Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 
And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


T" 


THE   BUGLE   SONG. 

''HE  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ; 


THE  BUGLE  SONG. 

O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


14 


SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS. 


TEARS,   IDLE   TEARS. 

TEARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  oh  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  glows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


SONG   TO   THE  SWALLOW.  15 


SONG  TO   THE   SWALLOW. 

O  SWALLOW,  Swallow,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

O  tell  her.  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow,  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill. 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love. 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green  1 

O  tell  her.  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown : 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

0  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South, 

O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods. 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her  mine. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee.'' 


l6  SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS, 


ENID^S    SONG. 

TURN,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  proud ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine,  storm,  and  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or  frown ; 
"With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands ; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 


VIVIEN'S    SONG. 

IN  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours. 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers ; 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 


ELAINE'S  SONG. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute. 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

It  is  not  worth  the  keeping :  let  it  go : 
But  shall  it  ?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. 


ELAINE'S   SONG. 

SWEET  is  true  love  though  given  in  vain,  in  vain ; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain ; 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  hitter  death  must  be : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away. 
Sweet  death  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be ; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me ; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow !  let  me  die. 


2 


17 


l8  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


SONG    OF    THE    NOVICE    TO    QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

LATE,  late,  so  late !  and  dark  the  night  and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late !  but  we  can  enter  stilL 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

No  light  had  we :  for  that  we  do  repent ; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  wiir relent* 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

No  light :  so  late !  and  dark  and  chill  the  night ; 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late  :  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet  ? 
O  let  us  in,  though  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 


RING  OUT,  WILD   BELLS. 

RING  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light ; 
The  year  is  dying  iii  the  night ; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 


RING    OUT,    WILD  BELLS.  19 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go: 
Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 

For  those  that  here  Ave  see  no  more ; 

Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 
Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 

Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 
But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease. 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


20 


SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


BREAK,   BREAK,    BREAK. 

BREAK,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 


COME  NOT,    WHEN  I  AM  DEAD,  2 1 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


COME   NOT,   WHEN    I   AM   DEAD. 

COME  not,  when  I  am  dead, 
To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  would'st  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry ; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime, 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest ; 
"Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of  Time, 

And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie : 
Go  by,  go  by. 


22  SONGS  FOB  ALL  SEASONS. 


THE   POET'S   SONG. 

THE  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 
He  passed  by  the  town,  and  out  of  the  street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun. 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place. 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet. 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey. 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "I  have  sung  many  songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay. 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 


LILIAN. 

IRY,  fairy  Lilian, 
Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 
Laughing  all  she  can ; 


A' 


LILIAN.  23 


She  '11  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 

When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 
She,  looking  through  and  through  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks  : 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 

Then  away  she  flies. 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian ! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me.  May  Lilian  : 
Through  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth : 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian. 

Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee. 

Fairy  Lilian. 


24  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


THE    OWL. 

WHEN  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come. 
And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch. 

And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 

And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay. 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay ; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


TO   THE  OWL.  25 


TO   THE   SAME. 

THY  tuwhits  are  lulled,  I  wot. 
Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
So  took  echo  with  delight. 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 

That  her  voice,  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 

I  would  mock  thy  chant  anew ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit. 

With  a  lengthened  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-0-0. 


26  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


A  SPIRIT   HAUNTS. 

I. 

A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours, 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers : 
To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 
In  the  walks  ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

II. 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hushed,  and  close, 

As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death ; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 

Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


CLARIBEL, 


27 


CLARIBEL. 

A  >IELODY. 

WHEHE  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 


28  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-lleth. 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  mossed  headstone  : 
At  midnight  the  moon  coraeth 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwclleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth. 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


A  DIRGE. 


NOW  is  done  thy  long  day's  work ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

II. 
Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 


A  DIRGE.  29 


Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

III. 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed ; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 
Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave.  ' 

Let  them  rave. 

V. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep 
Bramble-roses,  fiiint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Through  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


30  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS, 

VI. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine, 
The  frail  bluebell  pecrcth  over 
Kare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

TII. 

Wild  words  wander  here  and  there ; 
God^s  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused,  — 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   ORIANA. 


MY  heart  is 
Oriana. 


wasted  with  my  woe, 


There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribbed  with  snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 


THE  BALLAD    OF   ORIANA.  31 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood,  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight. 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana : 
She  watched  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana  : 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call. 
When  forth  there  stept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 


g2  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS, 

The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 

And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 

O  !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
O  !  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepened  in  its  place, 

Oriana ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabbed  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  1 
How  could  I  look  upon  the  day  ? 
They  should  have  stabbed  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana,  — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

O !  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana ; 
O !  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana. 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak. 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana ; 
What  wan  test  thou  1  whom  dost  thou  seek, 

Oriana  ? 


THE  BALLAD   OF   ORIANA. 

I  cry  aloud  :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  lieart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

0  cursed  hand !  0  cursed  blow ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roanng  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


33 


34 


SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


THE   MILLER'S   DAUGHTER. 


IT  is  the  miller's  daughter, 
And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  troubles  at  her  ear : 


THE  MERMAN, 

For,  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I  'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 
I  scarce  should  be  unclasped  at  night. 


THE   MERMAN. 

T  T  7H0  would  be 
VV    A  merman  bold 

Sitting  alone. 

Singing  alone 

Under  the  sea. 
With  a  crown  of  gold, 

On  a  throne  ? 

I  would  be  a  merman  bold  ; 
I  would  sit  and  sinp^  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of  power. 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad,  and  play 


35 


36  SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS, 

With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the  rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea-flower ; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing  locks, 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kissed  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly  ; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight  and  high, 

Chasing  each  other  merrily. 
There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above  us  afar,  — 
Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic  night,  — 

Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy  dells, 
Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily  ; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  spangles  and  shells, 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  between, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily  ; 
But  I  would  throw  them  back  in  mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen, 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kissed  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
0  !  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green  I 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea ; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  MERMAID, 


THE    MERMAID. 

WHO  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne  1 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair ; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my  hair ; 
And  still  as  I  combed  I  would  sing  and  say, 
"  Who  is  it  loves  me  ?  who  loves  not  me  1 " 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets  would  fall. 

Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around, 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of  gold 
Springing  alone 

With  a  shrill  inner  sound 
Over  the  throne 

In  the  midst  of  the  hall ; 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in  at  the  g£ 
"JVith  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me. 


37 


3-8  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS, 

And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 

Would  feel  their  immortality 

Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 

But  at  night  I  would  wander  away,  away, 

I  would  fling  on  each  side  my  low-flowing  locks, 
And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and  play 

With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the  rocks ; 

We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and  seek. 

On  the  broad  sea- wolds  i'  the  crimson  shells. 

Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the  sea. 

But  if  any  came  near,  I  would  call  and  shriek. 

And  adown  the  steep  like  a  wave  I  would  leap 

From  the  diamond  ledges  that  jut  from  the  dells. 
For  I  would  not  be  kissed  by  all  who  would  list. 
Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the  sea ; 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and  flatter  me. 
In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea ; 
But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry  me. 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me. 
In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently, 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned,  and  soft. 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere  of  the  sea. 
All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


I 

THE  SISTERS.  39 


THE   SISTERS. 


WE  were  two  daughters  of  one  race : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face : 
The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 
0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

She  died :  she  went  to  burning  flame : 
She  mixed  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and  late, 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

I  made  a  feast ;  I  bade  him  come  : 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed. 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head  : 

O  the  Earl  was  so  fair  to  see ! 

I  kissed  his  eyelids  into  rest : 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell. 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


40 


SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I  stabbed  him  through  and  through. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

I  curled  and  combed  his  comely  head, 
He  looked  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


LOVE   THAT   HATH    US   IN   THE    NET. 

LOVE  that  hath  us  in  the  net. 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 
Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget : 

Ah,  no !  no ! 


AS   THRO'    THE  LAND  AT  EVE   WE   WENT.       41 


AS  THRO'  THE  LAND  AT  EVE  WE  WENT. 


AS  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 
And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears. 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
We  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 
And  kissed  again  with  tears. 


42 


SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love, 

And  kiss  again  with  tears  ! 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
0  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


SWEET  AND   LOW. 

SWEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low. 
Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 
Wind  of  the  western  sea ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west,  * 

Under  the  silver  moon  ; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE.  43 


THY  VOICE    IS    HEARD. 

THY  voice  is  heard  through  rolling  drams 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands : 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 
He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe. 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


LADY   CLARA  VERE   DE  VERE. 

LADY  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown ; 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 
I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name ; 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 


44  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 
A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 

A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love. 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates  • 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
O  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind. 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed,  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear : 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 


LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VERB. 

The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall, 

You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 
To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 

And,  last,  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare, 
And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers ; 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease. 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time. 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands. 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  1 
O  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read. 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart. 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


45 


46  SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS, 


THE   DEATH    OF   THE   OLD   YEAR. 

FULL  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low. 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move  : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true,  true-love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us. 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 


THE  DEATH  OF   THE   OLD   YEAR.  47 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o*er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he  '11  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend. 

And  the  New-year,  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro : 
The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  bums  low : 
'T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There  's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


HOME  THEY  BROUGHT  HER  WARRIOR  DEAD. 

HOME  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  : 
She  nor  swooned  nor  uttered  cry : 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
*'  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 

Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  shfe  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face : 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 


OUR  ENEMIES  HAVE  FALLEN.  49 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee,  — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears,  — 

"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


OUR  ENEMIES   HAVE   FALLEN. 

OUR  enemies  have  fallen,  have  fallen  :  the  seed, 
Tlc  little  seed  they  laughed  at  in  the  dark. 
Has  risen  tnd  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girih,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arias  and  rushes  to  the  Sun. 

Our  enemies  have  ♦ullen,  have  fallen  :  they  came ; 
The  leaves  were  wet  with  women's  tears;  they  heard 
A  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand. 
They  marked  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the  fall, 
And  would  have  strown  it,  and  uxq  fallen  themselves. 

Our  enemies  have  fallen,  have  fallen  :  they  came, 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes  :  lo  the  t/ee! 
But  we  will  make  it  fagots  for  the  hearih. 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  and  floor. 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

Our  enemies  have  fallen,  have  fallen  :  they  strt.ck ; 
With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves,  nor  knew 
There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain : 
The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arras. 
Their  arms  were  shattered  to  the  shoulder-blade. 
4 


50  SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS. 

Our  enemies  have  fallen,  but  this  shall  grow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a  breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power ;  and  rolled 
With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the  fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 


THE   MAY   QUEEN. 


YOU  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New- 
year  ; 
Of  all  the  glad  New^-year,  mother,  the  maddest,  merriest  day ; 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 
the  May. 

II. 
There 's  many  a  black,  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as 

mine; 
There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there  's  Kate  and  Caroline*. 
But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land,  they  say : 
So  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 

the  May. 


I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake. 
If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 
But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  of  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o* 
the  May. 


THE  MAY   QUEEN, 


SI 


IV. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley,  whom  think  ye  should  I  see, 
But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree? 
lie  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday,  — 
But  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 
the  May. 

V. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white, 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o*  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o* 
the  May. 

VI. 

They  say  he  's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be  : 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother,  —  whai  is  that  to  mel 
There  '&  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day. 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 
the  May. 

VII. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green. 
And  you  '11  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen : 
For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  Mil  come  from  far  away, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 
the  May. 


The  honeysnckle  round  the  porch  has  woven  its  wavy  bowers. 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and 

hollows  gray. 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o*  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 

the  May. 


52 


SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS. 


IX. 

The  nijicht-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow  grass, 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  tlie  livelong  day, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 
the  May. 

X. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill. 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 
the  May. 

XI. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest,  merriest  day. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o' 
the  May. 


NEW  YEAR'S   EVE. 


IF  you  *re  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 
It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould,  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

II. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind ; 
And  the  New-year  's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 


NEW   YEARS  EVE. 


53 


III. 
Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers  :  we  had  a  merry  day ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  May-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

IV. 

There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills  :  the  frost  is  on  the  pane  : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again  : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high ; 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 


The  building  rook  Mil  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

YI. 
Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early,  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm  asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 


When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light. 
You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the 
pool. 

VIII. 

You  '11  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade. 
And  you  '11  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 


54 


SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS. 


I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 


I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you  '11  forgive  me  now ; 
You  '11  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I  go : 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild. 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 


CONCLUSION,  55 

X. 

If  I  can,  I  *11  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place ; 
Though  you  '11  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face ; 
Though  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I  'm  far  away. 

XI. 

Good  night,  good  night,  when  I  have  said  good  night  forever- 
more, 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door ; 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green : 
She  '11  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 


She  '11  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor ; 
Let  her  take  'em  :  they  are  hers :  I  shall  never  garden  more : 
But  tell  her,  when  I  'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

XIII. 

Grood  night,  sweet  mother :  call  me  before  the  day  is  bom. 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  mom ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you  're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION. 

I. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am ; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ! 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet 's  here. 


56  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS, 

II. 
O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow. 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

III. 
It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  motber,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun. 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay  ;  and  yet.  His  will  be  done ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can^t  be  long  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

IV. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ! 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

V. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  showed  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there  's  One  will  let  me  in  : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

VI. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat. 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  EflQe  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

VII. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 


CONCLUSION.  57 

VIII. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  prayed  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resigned, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

IX. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listened  in  my  bed, 

And  then  did  something  speak  to  me  —  I  know  not  what  was 

said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind. 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

X. 

But  you  were  sleeping ;  and  I  said,  "  It 's  not  for  them ;  it 's 

mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

XI. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  passed  away. 

XII. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There  's  many  worthier  than  I  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived  —  I  cannot  tell  —  I  might  have  been  his  wife ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

XIII. 

O  look !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow ; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 


58  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine  — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

XIV. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice  that  now  is  speaking  may  be  beyond  the  sun  — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  1  why  make  we  such  ado  ? 

XV. 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home  — 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come  — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  Me  upon  your  breast  — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE   SEA-FAIRIES. 

SLOW  sailed  the  weary  mariners,  and  saw, 
Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running  foam, 
Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms  prest 
To  little  harps  of  gold ;  and,  while  they  mused, 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear. 
Shrill  music  reached  them  on  the  middle  sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away  ?  fly  no  more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and  the  happy  blossoming 

shore  1 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain  calls ; 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea : 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES,  59 

Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 

They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 

And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill  swell* 

High  over  the  full-toned  sea : 

O  hither,  come  hither,  and  furl  your  sails, 

Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me ! 

Hither,  come  hither,  and  frolic  and  play ;      , 

Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails ; 

We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day : 

Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails. 

For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales. 

And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales. 

And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and  bay. 

And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the  land 

Over  the  islands  free ; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the  sand ; 

Hither,  come  hither  and  see ; 

And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave. 

And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave. 

And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be ; 

O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords. 

For  merry  brides  are  we  ! 

"We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet  words : 

O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 

With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee ! 

O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 

When  the  sharp,  clear  twang  of  the  golden  chords 

Runs  up  the  ridged  sea ! 

Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 

All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er  ? 

Whither  away  1  listen  and  stay :  mariner,  mariner  fly  no  more. 


6o  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


THE   DESERTED  HOUSE. 

I. 

LIFE  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side. 
Leaving  door  and  windows  wide : 
Careless  tenants  they ! 

II. 

All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

III. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  through  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark,  deserted  house. 

'      IV. 

Come  away ;  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth. 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

V. 

Come  away ;  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell  ; 
But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 
A  mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us. 


ASK  ME  NO  MORE, 


6i 


ASK   ME    NO    MORE. 


ASK  me  no  more :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the  shape, 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape ; 
But,  0  too  fond,  when  have  I  answered  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more :  what  answer  should  I  give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die ! 


62  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more :  thy  fate  and  mine  are  sealed : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain ; 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  : 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


NOW  SLEEPS   THE   CRIMSON   PETAL. 

NOW  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white, 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk ; 
Nor  winks  the  goldfin  in  the  porphyry  font : 
The  fire-fly  wakens  :  waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milk-white  peacock  like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 


COME  DOWN,   0  MAID.  63 


COME   DOWN,   O   MAID. 

COME  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height : 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height,  (the  shepherd  sang,) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills  ? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  heavens,  and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  pine. 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  tliou  down 
And  find  him ;  by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats. 
Or  fox-like  in  the  vine ;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  Silver  Horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice. 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors  : 
But  follow  ;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley ;  let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and  spill 
Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke, 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air  : 
So  waste  not  thou ;  but  come ;  for  all  the  vales 
Await  thee  ;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee ;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet ; 


64  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  through  the  lawn, 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees. 


THE   GOLDEN  YEAR. 

WE  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but  all  things  move  ; 
The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother  Sun ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheeled  in  her  ellipse : 
And  human  things  returning  on  themselves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 

Ah,  though  the  times  when  some  new  thought  can  bud 
Are  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they  flower, 
Yet  seas  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their  march. 
And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden  year. 

When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in  mounded  heaps, 
But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly  melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 
And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker  man 
Through  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 

Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ?  wrens  be  wrens  ? 
If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of  that? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less. 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.     Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE.  65 

Fly,  happy,  happy  sails,  and  bear  the  Press ; 
Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross  ; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  havenward. 
"With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear  of  toll. 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

But  we  grow  old.     Ah  !  when  shall  all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land. 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the  sea, 
Through  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year  ? 


ST.  AGNES'   EVE. 


DEEP  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward. 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 
That  in  my  bosom  lies. 
5 


66  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

II. 
As  these  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark. 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb> 

My  spirit  before  Thee ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  0  Lord  !  and  far, 

Through  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 


III.  ^ 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors. 

And  strews  her  lights  below. 
And  deepens  on  and  up !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride ! 


A  FAREWELL.  67 


A  FAREWELL. 

FLOW  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 
Thy  tribute  wave  deliver : 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river : 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

Forever  and  forever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder-tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee 
Forever  and  forever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver ; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 


68  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS, 


THE   BEGGAR   MAID. 

HER  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid ; 
She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say : 
Barefooted  came  tlie  beggar  maid 

Before  the  King  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way ; 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 
"  She  is  more  beautiful  than  day." 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 

She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen : 
One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 

One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 
So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace, 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been : 
Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath  : 

<♦  This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen  ! " 


MOVE  EASTWARD,  HAPPY  EARTH. 


69 


MOVE   EASTWARD,   HAPPY  EARTH. 

MOVE  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow ; 
From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 

O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go ; 
Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 


^O  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 
That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne. 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn. 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


THE   SKIPPING-ROPE. 

SURE  never  yet  was  Antelope 
Could  skip  so  lightly  by. 
Stand  off,  or  else  my  skipping-rope 
Will  hit  you  in  the  eye. 

How  lightly  whirls  the  skipping-rope ! 

How  fairy-like  you  fly  ! 
Go,  get  you  gone,  you  muse  and  mope, 

I  hate  that  silly  sigh. 
Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope, 

Or  tell  me  how  to  die. 
There,  take  it,  take  my  skipping-rope 

And  hang  yourself  thereby. 


TEE  SAILOR'S 07.  71 


THE   SAILOR-BOY. 

HE  rose  at  dawn,  and,  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbor-bar. 
And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the  rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud. 
He  heard  a  fierce  merraaiden  cry, 

"  0  boj,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proud, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

"  The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 

In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay. 
And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 

And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play." 

"  Fool,"  he  answered,  "  death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam. 

But  I  will  nevermore  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

"  My  mother  clings  about  my  neck. 
My  sisters  crying  '  stay  for  shame '  ; 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck. 

They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to  blame. 

"  God  help  me !  save  I  take  my  part 

Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 
A  devil  rises  in  my  heart. 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 


72  SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS. 


THE    ISLET. 

cc  T  T  7HITHEE,  0  whither,  love,  shall  we  go, 

V  V    For  a  score  of  sweet  little  summers  or  so,*' 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said. 
On  the  day  that  followed  the  day  she  was  wed, 
"  Whither,  0  whither,  love,  shall  we  go  '^ " 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Turned  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash, 
Singing,  "  And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor  rash. 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheekM, 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak' d, 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruby  glow. 
To  a  sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I  know, 
A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd ; 
Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash, 
Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Eairily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 
And  overstream'd  and  silvery-streak'd 
With  many  a  rivulet  high  against  the  Sun 
The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain  flash 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine." 

"  Thither,  O  thither,  love,  let  us  go." 

*'  No,  no,  no ! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear, 


777^:  RINGLET,  73 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a  musical  throat, 
And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single  note, 
That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear." 

"  Mock  me  not !  mock  me  not !  love,  let  us  go/* 


"  No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on  the  tree. 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely  sea, 
And  a  worm  is  there  in  the  lonely  wood, 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the  blood. 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be." 


THE   RINGLET. 

cc"V  TOUR  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 

X     That  look  so  golden-gay. 
If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  one. 

To  kiss  it  night  and  day. 
Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Will  turn  it  silver-gray ; 
And  then  shall  I  know  it  is  all  true  gold 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of  old. 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold, 

And  all  her  stars  decay." 
"  Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by ; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  I." 


74 


SONGS  FOE  ALL  SEASONS. 

2. 

"  My  ringlet,  my  ringlet, 

That  art  so  golden-gay, 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray ; 
And  a  lad  may  wink,  and  a  girl  may  hint, 

And  a  fool  may  say  his  say ; 
For  my  doubts  and  fears  were  all  amiss. 
And  I  swear  henceforth  by  this  and  this. 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kiss, 

And  a  fear  to  be  kissM  away." 
"  Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  ; 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 


II. 

0  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

I  kiss'd  you  night  and  day, 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  still  are  golden-gay. 
But  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray  : 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  true  gold, 

She  that  gave  you  's  bought  and  sold. 
Sold,  sold. 

2. 

O  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  rosy  red, 
When  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  head, 
And  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 


THE  BROOK,  75 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said, 
**  Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by ; 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 
O  fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie 
You  golden  lie. 

3. 

O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 
For  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  put  me  much  to  shame. 
So  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  doom  you  to  the  flame. 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  learn. 
Has  given  all  my  faith  a  turn "? 
Burn,  you  glossy  heretic,  burn. 
Burn,  burn. 


THE   BROOK. 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 
I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down. 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town. 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 


76  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

Por  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


THE  BROOK,  77 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways. 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out. 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel. 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 


78  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS, 

\ 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance. 

Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses ; 

I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 
March  7,  1863. 

SEA-KINGS'  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 
Alexandra ! 
Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 
But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 
Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  fleet ! 
Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the  street ! 
Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and  sweet, 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet ! 


A    WELCOME   TO  ALEXANDRA,  79 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers ! 

Make  music,  0  bird,  in  the  new-budded  bowers ! 

Blazon  your  mottos  of  blessing  and  prayer ! 

Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is  ours ! 

Warble,  0  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare ! 

Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers ! 

Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare  ! 

Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire! 

Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air ! 

Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire ! 

Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and  higher 

Melt  into  stars  for  the  land's  desire ! 

Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice. 

Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the  strand. 

Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the  land, 

And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's  desire, 

The  sea-kings'  daughter  as  happy  as  fair, 

Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir. 

Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the  sea,  — 

O  joy  to  the  people  and  joy  to  the  throne, 

Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us  your  own : 

For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we. 

Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be, 

We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 


8o  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


ODE 

SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL  EXHIBITION. 

UPLIFT  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet, 
In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  inventions  stored, 
And  praise  th'  invisible  universal  Lord, 
Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations  meet, 

Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have  outpour'd 
Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our  feet. 

O  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 

Mourn 'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee, 

For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to  thee ! 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine, 

And,  lo  !  the  long  laborious  miles 

Of  Palace ;  lo  !  the  giant  aisles. 

Rich  in  model  and  design ; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry. 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engin'ry, 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine. 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine. 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  fine. 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder,  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Part  divine  ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use. 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 


ODE.  Si 

Brought  from  under  every  star, 
Blown  from  over  every  main, 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain. 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 

O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who  reign. 
From  growing  commerce  loose  her  latest  chain, 
And  let  the  fair  white-wing'd  peacemaker  fly 
To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 
And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden  hours. 
Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all  men's  good, 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherliood, 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed  towers, 
And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  powers. 

And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  peace  and  crown'd  with  all  her 
flowers. 


82  80XGS  FOB  ALL  SEASONS, 


MY  LIFE   IS   FULL  OF  WEARY  DAYS. 

MY  life  is  full  of  weary  days, 
But  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 
Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  ; 

I  have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof, 
Kor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go  : 

Shake  hands  once  more :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far  —  far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


HOME   THEY  BROUGHT  HIM   SLAIN   WITH 
SPEARS. 

HOME  they  brought  him  slain  wHh  spears, 
They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall : 
All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 
Echoes  in  his  empty  hall, 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 

The  Sun  peep'd  in  from  open  field. 

The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 

Rode  upon  his  father's  lance. 
Beat  upon  his  father's  shield,  — 

**  0  hubh,  my  joy,  my  sorrow." 


CRADLE  SONG. 


83 


CRADLE    SONG. 


WHAT  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 


84  SONGS  FOR  ALL  SEASONS, 

Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby  sleep  a  little  longer. 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


LYRICS   OF   LIFE, 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


With  Illustrations  by  S.  Eytinge,  Jr. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
I  87  I. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University  Press:   Welch,   Bigelow,   &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 

♦ 

Page 

"Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds,  and  stripes" 5 

"  Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went  " 6 

*'All  service  ranks^he  same  with  God" 8 

"The  year's  at  the  spring" 9 

"  A  KING   lived   long  AGO  " 9 

"  You 'LL   LOVE  MB  YET  !  " II 

"Overhead  THE  tree-tops  meet" ii 

Marching  Along 12 

Give  a  Rouse 13 

Boot  and  Saddle 14 

"There's  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop" 15 

My  Last  Duchess 16 

Soliloquy  op  the  Spanish  Cloister 18 

Through  the  Metidja  to  Abd-el-Kadr 20 

Count  Gismond zi 

The  Lost  Leader 26 

The  Lost  Mistress 27 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 28 

Home  Thoughts,  from  the  Sea 29 

The  Flower's  Name 29 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin 31 

Fame     .       ...4       .......  40 

Love         ...               40 

Song 4° 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 41 

The  Boy  and  the  Angel 43 

Time's  Revenges ,        .        .  46 

The  Glove 48 

"How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix"     .  53 


IV 


CONTENTS, 


Love  among  the  Ruins 

A  Woman's  Last  Word  . 

A  Serenade  at  the  Tilla 

Evelyn  Hope   . 

My  Star 

Love  in  a  Life 

Life  in  a  Love    . 

Memorabilia     . 

After    . 

In  Three  Days  . 

In  a  Year     . 

"Dk  Gcstibus  — " 

Women  and  Roses 

The  Guardian-Angel 

Two  IN  THE   CaMPAGNA 

The  Patriot     . 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral 

The  Confessional    . 

One  Way  of  Love 

Another  Way  of  Love  . 

Misconceptions    .       • 

One  Word  More     . 

Meeting  at  Night       • 

Parting  at  Morning 

Prospicb 

May  and  Death 

In  the  Doorway 

Among  the  Rocks    . 


56 
59 
60 
6z 
64 
65 
65 
66 
67 
67 
69 
7Z 
73 
75 
77 
79 
81 

85 
88 
89 
90 
90 
97 


,    99 

100 

lOI 


LYRICS    OF    LIFE, 


"HEAP  CASSIA,  SANDAL-BUDS,  AND  STRIPES.' 

HEAP  cassia,  sandal -buds,  and  stripes 
Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls 
Smeared  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair :   (such  balsam  falls 
Down  seaside  mountain  pedestals, 
From  summits  where  tired  winds  are  fain, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  iriland-gain.) 


And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some  old 

Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud, 
Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  unrolled ; 
And  shred  dim  perfume,  like  a  cloud 
From  chamber  long  to  quiet  vowed, 
"With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung. 
Mouldering  tlie  lute  and  books  among 
Of  queen,  long  dead,  who  lived  there  young. 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 


"OVER  THE   SEA  OUR   GALLEYS  WENT." 


OVER  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave, 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave,  — 

A  gallant  armament : 
Each  bark  built  out  of  a  forest-tree. 

Left  leafy  and  rough  as  first  it  grew, 
And  nailed  all  over  the  gaping  sides. 
Within  and  without,  with  black-bull  hides, 
Seethed  in  fat  and  suppled  in  flame, 
To  bear  the  playful  billows'  game ; 
So  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see. 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 

But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent ; 
Where  cedar-pales  in  scented  row 
Kept  out  the  flakes  of  the  dancing  brine  : 
And  an  awning  drooped  the  mast  below, 
In  fold  on  fold  of  the  purple  fine, 
That  neither  noontide,  nor  star-shine, 


''OVER   THE  SEA    OUR   GALLEYS    WENT:' 

Nor  moonlight  cold  which  maketh  mad, 

Might  pierce  the  regal  tenement. 
When  the  sun  dawned,  0,  gay  and  glad 
We  set  the  sail  and  plied  the  oar ; 
But  when  the  night-wind  blew  like  breath, 
For  joy  of  one  day's  voyage  more, 
We  sang  together  on  the  wide  sea. 
Like  men  at  peace  on  a  peaceful  shore; 
Each  sail  was  loosed  to  the  wind  so  free. 
Each  helm  made  sure  by  the  twilight  star. 
And  in  a  sleep  as  calm  as  death. 
We,  the  strangers  from  afar. 

Lay  stretched  along,  each  weary  crew 
In  a  circle  round  its  wondrous  tent. 
Whence  gleamed  soft  light  and  curled  rich  scent. 

And  with  light  and  perfume,  music  too  : 
So  the  stars  wheeled  round,  and  the  darkness  past. 
And  at  morn  we  started  beside  the  mast. 
And  still  each  ship  was  sailing  fast ! 

One  morn  the  land  appeared  !  —  a  speck 
Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky  — 
Avoid  it,  cried  our  pilot,  check 

The  shout,  restrain  the  longing  eye ! 
But  the  heaving  sea  was  black  behind 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  day. 
And  land,  though  but  a  rock,  drew  nigh ; 
So  we  broke  the  cedar-pales  away, 
Let  the  purple  awning  flap  in  the  wind, 

And  a  statue  bright  was  on  every  deck  ! 
We  shouted,  every  man  of  us. 
And  steered  right  into  the  harbor  thus, 
With  pomp  and  paean  glorious. 

An  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone ! 

AH  day  we  built  a  shrine  for  each  — 
A  shrine  of  rock  for  every  one  — 
Nor  paused  we  till  in  the  westering  sun 

We  sate  together  on  the  beach 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 

To  sing,  because  our  task  was  done ; 
When  lo  !  what  shouts  and  merry  songs ! 
What  laughter  all  the  distance  stirs  ! 
What  raft  comes  loaded  with  its  throngs 
Of  gentle  islanders  ? 
"  The  isles  are  just  at  hand,"  they  cried ; 

"  Like  cloudlets  faint  at  even  sleeping, 
Our  temple-gates  are  opened  wide, 

Our  olive-groves  thick  shade  are  keeping 
For  the  lucid  shapes  you  bring,"  —  they  cried. 
O,  then  we  awoke  with  sudden  start 
From  our  deep  dream ;  we  knew,  too  late, 
How  bare  the  rock,  how  desolate. 
To  which  we  had  flung  our  precious  freight : 

Yet  we  called  out —  "  Depart ! 
Our  gifts,  once  given,  must  here  abide : 

Our  work  is  done ;  we  have  no  heart 
To  mar  our  work,  though  vain,"  —  we  cried. 


"ALL  SERVICE  RANKS  THE  SAME  WITH  GOD." 

ALL  service  ranks  the  same  with  God : 
If  now,  as  formerly  He  trod 
Paradise,  His  presence  fills 
•    Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 
Can  work,  —  God's  puppets,  best  and  worst, 
Are  we ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

Say  not  "  a  small  event "  !     Why  "  small  "  ? 
Costs  it  more  pain  than  this,  ye  call 
A  *'  great  event,"  should  come  to  pass. 
Than  that?     Untwine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in,  or  exceed  ! 


"^  KING  LIVED  LONG  AGO: 


"THE   YEAR'S   AT  THE   SPRING." 

THE  year  's  at  the  spring, 
And  day  's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning  's  at  seven  ; 
The  hillside  *s  dew-pearled  : 
The  lark  's  on  the  wing  ; 
The  snail  's  on  the  thorn ; 
God  's  in  his  heaven  — 
All  's  right  with  the  world ! 


"A   KING   LIVED   LONG  AGO." 

A  KING  lived  long  ago, 
In  the  morning  of  the  world, 
When  earth  was  nigher  heaven  than  now : 
And  the  king*s  locks  curled 
Disparting  o'er  a  forehead  full 
As  the  milk-wliite  space  'twixt  horn  and  horn 
Of  some  sacrificial  bull  — 
Only  calm  as  a  babe  new-born  : 
For  he  was  got  to  a  sleepy  mood, 
So  safe  from  all  decrepitude, 
From  age  with  its  bane  so  sure  gone  by, 
(The  Gods  so  loved  him  while  he  dreamed,) 
That,  having  lived  thus  long,  there  seemed 
No  need  the  king  should  ever  die. 

Among  the  rocks  his  city  was : 
Before  his  palace,  in  the  sun, 
He  sat  to  see  his  people  pass. 
And  judge  them  every  6ne 
From  its  threshold  of  smooth  stone. 
2 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

They  haled  him  many  a  valley-thief 

Caught  in  the  sheep-pens,  —  robber-chief, 

Swarthy  and  shameless,  —  beggar  cheat,  — 

Spy-prowler,  —  or  rough  pirate  found 

On  the  sea-sand  left  aground  ; 

And  sometimes  clung  about  his  feet, 

With  bleeding  lip  and  burning  cheek, 

A  woman,  bitterest  wrong  to  speak 

Of  one  with  sullen  thickset  brows  : 

And  sometimes  from  the  prison-house 

The  angry  priests  a  pale  wretch  brought. 

Who  through  some  chink  had  pushed  and  pressed, 

On  knees  and  elbows,  belly  and  breast, 

Worm-like  into  the  temple,  —  caught 

At  last  there  by  the  very  God, 

Who  ever  in  the  darkness  strode 

Backward  and  forward,  keeping  watch 

O'er  his  brazen  bowls,  such  rogues  to  catch ! 

And  these,  all  and  every  one. 

The  king  judged,  sitting  in  the  sun. 

His  councillors,  on  left  and  right. 
Looked  anxious  up,  —  but  no  surprise 
Disturbed  the  king's  old  smiling  eyes. 
Where  the  very  blue  had  turned  to  white. 
'T  is  said,  a  Python  scared  one  day 
The  breathless  city,  till  he  came. 
With  forky  tongue  and  eyes  on  flame. 
Where  the  old  king  sat  to  judge  alway ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  sweepy  hair. 
Girt  with  a  crown  of  berries  rare 
Which  the  God  will  hardly  give  to  wear 
To  the  maiden  who  singeth,  dancing  bare 
In  the  altar-smoke  by  the  pine-torch  lights, 
At  his  wondrous  forest  rites,  — 
Beholding  this,  he  did  not  dare 
Approach  that  threshold  in  the  sun, 
Assault  the  old  king  smiling  there. 
Such  grace  had  kings  when  the  world  begun  ! 


''OVERHEAD   THE   TREE-TOPS  MEET:' 


"YOU'LL  LOVE   ME   YET!" 

YOU  'LL  love  me  yet !  —  and  I  can  tarry 
Your  love's  protracted  growing : 
June  reared  that  bunch  of  flowers  you  carry 
From  seeds  of  April's  sowing. 

I  plant  a  heartful  now  —  some  seed 

At  least  is  sure  to  strike 

And  yield  —  what  you  '11  not  pluck  indeed, 

Not  love,  but,  may  be,  like ! 

You  '11  look  at  least  on  love*s  remains, 
A  grave's  one  violet : 

Your  look  ?  —  That  pays  a  thousand  pains. 
What 's  death  ?  —  You  '11  love  me  yet ! 


"OVERHEAD   THE  TREE-TOPS   MEET." 

OVERHEAD  the  tree-tops  meet  — 
Flowers  and  grass  spring  'neath  one's  feet  — ^ 
There  was  naught  above  me,  and  naught  below. 
My  childhood  had  not  learned  to  know  ! 
For,  what  are  the  voices  of  birds, 
— Ay,  and  of  beasts,  —  but  words,  —  our  words, 
Only  so  much  more  sweet  ? 
The  knowledge  of  that  with  my  life  begun ! 
But  I  had  so  near  made  out  the  sun, 
And  counted  your  stars,  the  Seven  and  One, 
Like  the  fingers  of  my  hand : 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Nay,  I  could  all  but  understand 

Wherefore  through  heaven  the  white  moon  ranges ; 

And  just  when  out  of  her  soft  fifty  changes 

No  unfamiliar  face  might  overlook  me  — 

Suddenly  God  took  me  ! 


MARCHING  ALONG. 

KENTISH  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing  : 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  such  carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries ! 

Cavaliers,  up  !     Lips  from  the  cup. 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 

Till  you  're  {Chorus)  marching  alonp:,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

Hampden  to  Hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well ! 
England,  good  cheer  !     Rupert  is  near ! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here 

{Chxj.)  Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song  1 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles  ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight, 

(Cho.)  March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 


GIVE  A  ROUSE.  13 


GIVE  A  ROUSE. 

KING  CHARLES,  and  who  '11  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who  's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse :  here  's,  in  Heirs  despite  now. 
King  Charles ! 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since  ? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once  ? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since  1 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once  ? 

(Cho.)  King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do  him  right  now? 

King  Charles,  and  who  's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 

Give  a  rouse :  here  's,  in  Hell's  despite  now, 

King  Charles ! 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him  ? 

(Cho.)  King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do  him  right  now  ? 

King  Charles,  and  who  's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 

Give  a  rouse  :  here  's,  in  Hell's  despite  now. 

King  Charles ! 


14 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 


BOOT  AND   SADDLE. 

BOOT,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away ! 
Rescue  my  Castle,  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray, 

(Cho.)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you  M  say ; 
Many  's  the  friend  there  will  listen  and  pray 
"  God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay, 

(Cho.)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay. 

Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads'  array : 

Who  laughs,  "  Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 

(Cho.)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away?  " 

Who  ?     My  wife  Gertrude ;  that,  honest  and  gay. 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "  Nay  ! 
I  've  better  counsellors ;  what  counsel  they  ? 

(Cho.)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away ! " 


*'THEBE  '5  A    WOMAN  LIKE  A  DEW-DROP:'       15 


"THERE'S   A   WOMAN    LIKE   A   DEW-DROP." 

THERE  'S  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she  *s  so  purer  than  the 
purest ; 
And  her  noble  heart 's  the  noblest,  yes,  and  her  sure  faith  's  the 

surest : 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like  the  depth  on  depth  of  lustre 
Hid  i'  the  harebell,  while  her  tresses,  sunnier  than  the  wild-grape 

cluster. 
Gush  in  golden-tinted  plenty  down  her  neck's  rose-misted  marble : 
Then  her  voice's  music  .  .  .  call  it  the  well's  bubbling,  the  bird's 

warble ! 


l6  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

And  this  woman  says,  "My  days  were  sunless  and  my  nights 

were  moonless, 
Parched  the  pleasant  April  herbage,  and  the  lark's  heart's  out- 
break tuneless, 
If  you  loved  me  not !  "  And  I  who,  —  (ah,  for  words  of  flame !) 

adore  her ! 
Who  am  mad  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate  palpably  before  her,  — 
I  may  enter  at  her  portal  soon,  as  now  her  lattice  takes  me. 
And  by  noontide  as  by  midnight  make  her  mine,  as  hers  she 
makes  me ! 


MY   LAST   DUCHESS. 

THAT  'S  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive ;  I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now  :  Era  Pandolf 's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will 't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  1     I  said 
"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
Bnt  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst. 
How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek  :  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  Lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat "  ;  such  stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS.  17 

A  heart  .  .  .  how  shall  I  say  ?  .  .  .  too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed ;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  't  was  all  one  !     My  favor  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace,  —  all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men,  —  good ;  but  thanked 

Somehow  ...  I  know  not  how  ...  as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine  hundred  years  old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.     Who  *d  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling  ?     Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say  "  Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss. 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark  "  —  and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping,  and  I  chuso 

Never  to  stoop.     O,  Sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt. 

Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  ?     This  grew  ;  I  gave  commands ; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will 't  please  you  rise  ?     We  '11  meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat. 

The  Count  your  Master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we  '11  go 

Together  down,  Sir !     Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity. 

Which  Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me. 


iS  LYRICS   OF 'LIFE. 


SOLILOQUY   OF   THE   SPANISH    CLOISTER. 

GR-R-R  —  there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence ! 
Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do ! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you ! 
What "?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming  ? 

O,  that  rose  has  prior  claims,  — 

Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming  ? 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames ! 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together : 

Salve  tihi  I     I  must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year : 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop :  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak^alls,  I  doubt : 
What 's  the  Latin  name  for  ^^  parsley  "  f 

What 's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's  Snout  ? 

Whew  !     We  '11  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf! 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we  're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself. 
Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  't  is  fit  to  touch  our  chaps,  — 
Marked  with  L.  for  our  initial ! 

(He,  he !     There  his  lily  snaps  !) 

Saintf  forsooth  !     While  brown  Dolores 

Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank. 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories. 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank. 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horse-hairs, 

—  Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow 


SOLILOQUY  OF   THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER. 

Bright,  as  't  were  a  Barbary  corsair's  ? 
(That  is,  if  he  'd  let  it  show  !) 

"When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
I,  the  Trinity  illustrate. 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp,  — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate ; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp  ! 

0,  those  melons  !     If  he  's  able 

We  're  to  have  a  feast;  so  nice! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table. 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers  ?     None  double  ** 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy  1 
Strange  !  —  And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble, 

Keep  'em  close-nipped  on  the  sly ! 

There  's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations. 

One  sure,  if  another  fails. 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying. 

Sure  of  Heaven  as  sure  can  be. 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  Hell,  a  Manichee ! 

Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel. 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type ! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe : 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woful  sixteenth  point, 
When  lie  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in  't ! 


19 


20  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Or,  there  's  Satan  !  —  one  might  venture 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he  'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We  're  so  proud  of!     Ily,  Zy,  Him  .  . 
'St,  there  's  Vespers !     Plena  gratia 

Ave  Virgo!     Gr-r-r — you  swine! 


THROUGH    THE   METIDJA    TO  ABD-EL-KADR. 


AS  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 
With  a  full  heart  for  my  guide, 
So  its  tide  rocks  my  side. 
As  1  ride,  as  I  ride, 
That,  as  I  were  double-eyed. 
He,  in  whom  our  Tribes  confide, 
Is  descried,  ways  untried 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride 

To  our  Chief  and  his  Allied, 

Who  dares  chide  ray  heart's  pride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? 

Or  are  witnesses  denied,  — 

Through  the  desert  waste  and  wide 

Do  I  glide  unespied 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 
When  an  inner  voice  has  cried,    * 
The  sands  slide,  nor  abide 
(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 


COUNT  GISMOND,  21 

O'er  each  visioned  Homicide 
That  came  vaunting  (has  he  liedl) 
To  reside  —  where  lie  died, 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

Ne'er  has  spur  my  swift  horse  plied. 

Yet  his  hide,  streaked  and  pied, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

Shows  where  sweat  has  sprung  and  dried, 

—  Zebra-footed,  ostrich-thighed,  — 

How  has  vied  stride  with  stride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride ! 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

Could  I  loose  what  Fate  has  tied. 

Ere  I  pried,  slie  should  hide 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

All  that 's  meant  me  :  satisfied 

When  the  Prophet  and  the  Bridd 

Stop  veins  1  'd  have  subside 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride ! 


COUNT   GISMOND. 

CHRIST  God,  who  savest  men,  save  most 
Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved  me ! 
Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his  post. 

Chose  time  and  place  and  company 
To  suit  it;  when  he  struck  at  length 
My  honor  't  was  with  all  his  strength. 

And  doubtlessly  ere  he  could  draw 

All  points  to  one,  he  must  have  schemed . 


22  LYRICS    OF  LIFE, 

That  miserable  morning  saw- 
Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed, 
While  being  dressed  in  Queen's  array 
To  give  our  Tourney  prize  away. 

I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 

To  please  themselves ;  't  was  all  their  deed : 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face ; 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 

My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have  dropped 

A  word,  and  straight  t^e  play  had  stopped. 

They,  too,  so  beauteous !     Each  a  queen 
By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast ; 

Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  1  mean. 
As  I  do.     E'en  when  I  was  dressed. 

Had  either  of  them  spoke,  instead 

Of  glancing  sideways  with  still  head ! 

But  no  :  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing 
My  birthday  song  quite  through,  adjust 

The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 
A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 

My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 

And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs,  — 

And  come  out  on  the  morning  troop 
Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek, 

And  called  me  Queen,  and  made  me  stoop 
Under  the  canopy,  —  (a  streak 

That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun, 

Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft  dun,)  — 

And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 
And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 

Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 

My  Queen's  day,  —  O,  I  think  the  cause 

Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 

Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud ! 


COUNT  GISMOND.  23 

However  that  be,  all  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 
Theirs  down  ;  \  was  time  I  should  present 

The  victor's  crown,  but  .  .  .  there,  ^t  will  last 
No  long  time  .  .  .  the  old  mist  again 
Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.     How  vain ! 

See !  Gismond  's  at  the  gate,  in  talk 

With  his  two  boys  :  I  can  proceed. 
Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should  stalk 

Forth  boldly  (to  my  face,  indeed) 
But  Gauthier,  and  he  thundered  *'  Stay  !  " 
And  all  stayed.     "  Bring  no  crowns,  I  say  ! " 

**  Bring  torohes !     Wind  the  penance-sheet 

About  her !     Let  her  shun  the  chaste, 
Or  lay  herself  before  their  feet ! 

Shall  she,  whose  body  I  embraced 
A  night  long,  queen  it  in  the  day  1 
For  Honor's  sake  no  crowns,  I  say ! " 

I  ?     What  I  answered  ?     As  I  live 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  possible  to  give. 

What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it  ?     No  more  says  the  soul. 

Till  out  strode  Gismond ;  then  I  knew 

That  I  was  saved.     I  never  met 
His  face  before,  but,  at  first  view, 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 
Himself  to  Satan ;  who  w^ould  spend 
A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end  ^ 

He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 

Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck  his  mouth 

With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote 

In  blood  men's  verdict  there.     North,  South, 


24 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 

East,  West,  I  looked.     The  lie  was  dead, 
And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  instead. 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  of  the  joy,  with  my  content 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event : 

God  took  that  on  him,  —  I  was  hid 

Watch  Gismond  for  my  part :  I  did. 

Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let 
His  armorer  just  brace  his  greaves, 

Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  fret 

The  while  !     His  foot  .  .  .  my  memory  leaves 

No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  anon 

He  pulled  his  ringing  gauntlets  on. 

And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 

Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false  Knight, 

Prone  as  his  lie  upon  the  ground : 

Gismond  flew  at  him,  used  no  sleight 

Of  the  sword,  but  open-breasted  drove, 

Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 

Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my  feet 
And  said,  "  Here  die,  but  end  thy  breath 

In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 

From  my  first,  to  God's  second  death ! 

Say  hast  thou  lied  ?  "     And  "  I  have  lied 

To  God  and  her,"  he  said,  and  died. 

Then  Gismond,  kneeling  to  me,  asked 

—  What  safe  my  heart  holds,  though  no  word 

Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 
My  powers  forever,  to  a  third 

Dear  even  as  you  are.     Pass  the  rest 

Until  I  sank  upon  his  breast. 

Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 

Against  the  world ;  and  scarce  I  felt 


COUNT   GISMOND. 


His  sword,  that  dripped  by  me  and  swung, 

A  little  shifted  in  its  belt,  — 
For  he  began  to  say  the  while 
How  South  our  home  lay  many  a  mile. 

So  *mid  the  shouting  multitude 

"We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 

Return.     My  cousins  have  pursued 
Their  life,  untroubled  as  before 
3 


26  LYRICS    OF  LIFE. 

I  vexed  them.     Gauthier's  dwelling-place 
'  God  lighten  !     May  his  soul  find  grace ! 

Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 

Great  brow ;  tho'  when  his  brother's  black 
Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it  .  .  .  Gismond  here  ? 

And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back  ? 
I  just  was  telling  Adela 
How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 


THE   LOST   LEADER. 

JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  u^, 
Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat,  -^ 

Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 
Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  their's  who  so  little  allowed  : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags,  — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye. 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us,  —  they  watch  from  their  graves  ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves  I 

We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  through  his  presence ; 

Songs  may  insj)irit  us,  —  not  from  his  lyre  ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  l)oasts  his  quiescence. 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire ; 


THE  LOST  MISTRESS,  rj 

Blot  out  his  name,  then,  —  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and  sorrow  for  angels. 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God  ! 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come  back  to  us ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain. 
Forced  praise  on  our  part,  the  glimmer  of  twilight. 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him,  —  strike  gallantly, 

Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce  through  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  Heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne ! 


THE   LOST  MISTRESS. 

ALL  'S  over,  then,  —  does  truth  sound  bitter 
As  one  at  first  believes  1 
Hark,  't  is  the  sparrows'  good-night  twitter 
About  your  cottage  eaves ! 

And  the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are  woolly, 

I  noticed  that,  to-day  ; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully, 

—  You  know  the  red  turns  gray. 

To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then,  dearest  ? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine  ? 
Mere  friends  are  we,  —  well,  friends  the  merest 

Keep  much  that  I  '11  resign  : 

For  each  glance  of  that  eye  so  bright  and  black, 
Though  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavor,  — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Though  it  stays  in  my  soul  forever !  — 


28  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

—  Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger ; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 

Or  so  very  little  longer ! 


HOME  THOUGHTS,   FROM  ABROAD. 

OH,  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April 's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf. 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now  ! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows,  — 
Hark !  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops,  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge,  — 
That 's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over. 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine,  careless  rapture  ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower, 
— Ear  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower ! 


THE  FLOWERS  NAME.  29 


HOME  THOUGHTS,   FROM   THE   SEA. 

NOBLY,   nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  northwest  died 
away; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz  Bay ; 
Bluish  mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar  lay; 
In  the  dimmest  northeast  distance,  dawned  Gibraltar  grand  and 

gray; 
"  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me,  —  how  can  I  help  Eng- 
land? "  —  say, 
"Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise  and  pray. 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 


THE   FLOWER^S   NAME. 

HERE  'S  the  garden  she  walked  across, 
Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since : 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince ! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned. 
As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung ; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail,  my  chance  foot  spurned. 
To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box : 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  flox. 
Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by ! 
She  loves  you  noble  roses,  I  know ; 

But  yonder  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie  I 


30 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip, 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name. 
What  a  name  !     Was  it  love,  or  praise  ? 

Speech  half-asleep,  or  song  half-awake? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days. 

Only  for  that  slow,  sweet  name's  sake. 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase ! 
But  do  not  detain  me  now ;  for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 

Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not, 

Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  forever ! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  't  is  that  you  blow  not. 

Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never! 
For  while  thus  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle, 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between. 
Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle,  — 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen  ? 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish ; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee ; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me  ? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces. 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall 
—  Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces, — 

Hoses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all  I 


THE  PIED  PIPER    OF  UAMELIN. 


THE   PIED   PIPER   OF   HAMELIN. 

HAMELIN  Town  *s  in  Brunswick, 
By  famous  Hanover  city  ; 
The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side ; 
A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied; 
But,  when  be<^ins  my  ditty. 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago. 

To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 

From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 

Eats! 

They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles. 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats. 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats. 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats. 
By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking : 
"  'T  is  clear,"  cried  they,  *'  our  Mayor  's  a  noddy ; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation,  —  shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What 's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin  ! 
You  hope,  because  you  're  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease  ? 
Rouse  up,  Sirs  !     Give  your  brains  a  racking 
To  find  the  remedy  we  're  lacking, 
X>v,  sure  as  fate,  we  '11  send  you  packing !  " 


31 


32 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sat  in  counsel, 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence : 
"  For  a  guilder  I  'd  my  ermine  gown  sell ; 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence ! 
It 's  easy  to  bid.  one  rack  one's  brain,  — 
I  'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again 
I  've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
O  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap  !  " 
Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber  door  but  a  gentle  tap  ? 
"  Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  what 's  that  ?  " 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat. 
Looking  little,  though  wondrous  fat ; 
Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too  long-opened  oyster. 
Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew  mutinous 
For  a  plate  of  turtle  green  and  glutinous) 
"  Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat  ? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat !  " 

"  Come  in  ! "  —  the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger; 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure  ! 

His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 

Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red ; 

And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin. 

With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 

No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin. 

But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in, — 

There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin ! 

And  nobody  could  enough  admire 

The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire : 

Quoth  one  :  "  It 's  as  my  great-grandsire, 

Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom's  tone, 

Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted  tomb-stone ! ' 


THE  PIED  PIPER    OF  HAM E LIN. 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table  : 

And,  "  Please  your  honors,"  said  he,  "  I  *m  able, 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw ! 

And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 

On  creatures  that  do  people  harm. 

The  mole,  and  toad,  and  newt,  and  viper ; 

And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper/* 

(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck 

A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe. 

To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  selfsame  check ; 

And  at  the  scarfs  end  hung  a  pipe  ; 

And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever  straying 

As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 

Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 

Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

"Yet,"  said  he,  "poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham 

Last  June  from  his  huge  swarms  of  gnats ; 

I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampyre-bats : 

And,  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders. 

If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders  ?  " 

"  One  ?  fifty  thousand !  "  —  was  the  exclamation 

Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept. 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile. 
As  if  he  new  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while ; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept. 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled. 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled 
Like  a  candle  flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled ; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered. 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered ; 


33 


34 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 


And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling ; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling , 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 
'Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins. 


THE  PIED  PIPER    OF  HAMELIN.  35 

Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives  — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing. 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished, 

—  Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 

(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 

To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary. 

Which  was,  "  At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  pipe, 

I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 

And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 

Into  a  cider-press's  gripe : 

And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards. 

And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 

And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks. 

And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks ; 

And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 

(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 

Is  breathed)  called  out,  O  rats,  rejoice! 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery ! 

So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncbeon, 

Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon! 

And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon. 

All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 

Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me. 

Just  as  methought  it  said,  Come,  bore  me ! 

—  I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 

You  should  have  heard  the  Ilamelin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple ; 
"  Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  and  get  long  poles  ! 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders. 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats  !  "  —  when  suddenly  up  the  face 


36  LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 

Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 

With  a,  *'  Eirst  if  you  please,  my  thousand  guilders  ! ' 

A  thousand  guilders  !     The  Mayor  looked  blue ; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havock 

With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 

With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow ! 

"Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor  with  a  knowing  wink, 

"Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what  *s  dead  can't  come  to  life  I  think. 

So,  friend,  we  're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke ; 

But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty ; 

A  thousand  guilders  !     Come,  take  fifty  !  " 

The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

"  No  trifling !     I  can't  wait,  beside  ! 

I  've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 

Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of  the  Head  Cook's  pottage,  all  he  's  rich  in. 

For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen. 

Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor,  — 

With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver, 

With  you,  don't  think  I  '11  bate  a  stiver ! 

And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 

May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion." 

"  How  ?  "  cried  the  Mayor,  "  d'  ye  think  I  '11  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  Cook  1 

Insuhed  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 


TEE  PIED  PIPER    OF  EAMELIN, 

You  threaten  us,  fellow  ?     Do  your  worst, 
Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst !  " 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street; 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane ; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling,  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling, 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues  chattering, 
And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when  barley  is  scattering. 
Out  came  the  children  running. 
All  the  little  boys,  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

The  Mayor-was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 

As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 

Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by,  — 

And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 

That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 

But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack. 

And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat. 

As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 

To  where  the  Weser  polled  its  waters 

Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters ! 

However  he  turned  from  South  to  West, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed ; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top ! 

He  's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop  ! " 


37 


38  LYRICS    OF  LIFE, 

When,  lo !  as  they  reached  the  mountain's  side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed ; 

And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children  followed. 

And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last. 

The  door  in  the  mountain  side  shut  fast. 

Did  I  say  all  ?     No.     One  was  lame. 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way ; 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 

His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, — 

"  It 's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left ! 

I  can't  forget  that  I  'm  bereft 

Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see. 

Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me ; 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 

Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand. 

Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 

And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new ; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here. 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer. 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings. 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings ; 

And  just  as  I  became  assured 

My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still. 

And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 

Left  alone  against  my  will. 

To  go  now  limping  as  before. 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more !  " 

Alas !  alas  for  Hamelin  ! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's  pate 

A  text  which  says,  that  Heaven's  Gate 

Opes  to  the  Rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in ! 
The  Mayor  sent  East,  West,  North,  and  South 
To  offer  the  Piper  by  word  of  mouth. 

Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content. 


TEE  PIED  PIPER    OF  HAMELIN.  39 

If  he  *d  only  return  the  way  he  went. 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  't  was  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  forever. 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear, 
"  And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  Twenty-second  of  Jiily, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  Seventy-six  "  ; 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  Children's  last  retreat, 
They  called  it,  the  Pied  Piper's  Street,  — 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 
Nor  suffered  they  Hostelry  or  Tavern 

To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so  solemn ; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And  on  the  Great  Church  Window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away ; 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there  's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  that  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress. 
To  their  fiithers  and  mothers  having  risen 
Out  of  some  subterraneous  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  time  ago  in  a  mighty  band 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land. 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  understand. 

So,  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 

Of  scores  out  with  all  men  —  especially  pipers  : 

And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats  or  from  mice, 

If  we  've  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep  our  promise. 


40 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 


FAME. 


SEE,  as  the  prettiest  graves  will  do  in  time, 
Our  poet's  wants  the  freshness  of  its  prime ; 
Spite  of  the  sexton's  browsing  horse,  the  sods 
Have  struggled  through  its  binding  osier-rods ; 
Headstone  and  half-sunk  footstone  lean  awry, 
Wanting  the  brickwork  promised  by  and  by  ; 
How  the  minute  gray  lichens,  plate  o'er  plate, 
Have  softened  down  the  crisp-cut  name  and  date  I 


LOVE. 

SO,  the  year  's  done  with ! 
(Love  me  forever!) 
All  March  begun  with, 

April's  endeavor ; 
May-wreaths  that  bound  me 

June  needs  must  sever ! 
Now  snows  fall  round  me, 
Quenching  June's  fever,  — 
(Love  me  forever  I) 


SONG. 

NAY  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her. 
Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress  1 
Holds  earth  aught,  —  speak  truth,  —  above  her  ? 
Aught  like  this  tress,  see,  and  this  tress. 


INCIDENT   OF   THE  FRENCH  CAMP,  41 

And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all 
So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall! 

Because,  you  spend  your  lives  in  praising ; 

To  praise,  you  search  the  wide  world  over; 
So,  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 

If  earth  holds  aught  —  speak  truth  —  above  her? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this  I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much ! 


INCIDENT   OF   THE   FRENCH    CAMP. 

YOU  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 
A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how,    . 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 
Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as'  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader,  Lannes, 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy. 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect  — 
4 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 
Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 

You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 
Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 


"  Well/'  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  Ve  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal 's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 


THE  BOY  AND   THE  ANGEL. 

To  see  your  flao:-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him !  "     The  Chief's  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  Chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother  eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
«  You  're  wounded  !  "     "  Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
*'  I  'm  killed.  Sire !  "     And,  his  Chief  beside, 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 


43 


THE   BOY  AND   THE  ANGEL. 

MORNING,  evening,  noon,  and  night, 
**  Praise  God,"  sang  Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned, 
By  which  the  daily  meal  was  earned. 

Hard  he  labored,  long  and  well ; 
O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curls  fell : 

But  ever,  at  each  period, 

He  stopped  and  sang,  "  Praise  God." 

Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw. 
And  cheerful  turned  to  work  anew. 

Said  Blaise,  the  listening  monk,  "  Well  done ; 
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son : 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 

"  As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day- 
Were  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great  way. 

"  This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome 
Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome." 

Said  Theocrite,  "  Would  God  that  I 

Might  praise  Him,  that  great  way,  and  die !  " 

Night  passed,  day  shone, 
And  Theocrite  was  gone. 

With  God  a  day  endures  alway, 
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day. 

God  said  in  Heaven,  "  Nor  day  nor  night 
Now  brings  the  voice  of  my  delight.'* 

Then  Gabriel,  like  a  rainbow's  birth. 
Spread  his  wings  and  sank  to  earth ; 

Entered  in  flesh,  the  empty  cell. 

Lived  there,  and  played  the  craftsman  well ; 

And  morning,  evening,  noon,  and  night. 
Praised  God  in  place  of  Tiieocrite. 

And  from  a  boy,  to  youth  he  grew : 
The  man  put  off  the  stripling's  hue : 

The  man  matured  and  fell  away 
Into  the  season  of  decay : 

And  ever  o'er  the  trade  he  bent. 
And  ever  lived  on  earth  content. 

(He  did  God's  will ;  to  him,  all  one 
If  on  the  earth  or  in  the  sun.) 

God  said,  "  A  praise  is  in  mine  ear ; 
There  is  no  doubt  in  it,  no  fear : 


THE  BOY  AND   THE  ANGEL, 

"  So  sing  old  worlds,  and  so 

New  worlds  that  from  my  footstool  go. 

"  Clearer  loves  sound  other  ways  : 
I  miss  my  little  human  praise." 

Then  forth  sprang  Gabriel's  wings,  off  fell 
The  flesh  disguise,  remained  the  cell. 

'T  was  Easter  Day :  he  flew  to  Rome, 
And  paused  above  Saint  Peter's  dome. 

In  the  tiring-room  close  by 
The  great  outer  gallery. 

With  his  holy  vestments  dight. 
Stood  the  new  Pope,  Theocrite 

And  all  his  past  career 
Came  back  upon  him  clear. 

Since  when,  a  boy,  he  plied  his  trade, 
Till  on  his  life  the  sickness  weighed ; 

And  in  his  cell,  when  death  drew  near. 
An  angel  in  a  dream  brought  cheer ; 

And  rising  from  the  sickness  drear 
He  grew  a  priest,  and  now  stood  here. 

To  the  East  with  praise  he  turned. 
And  on  his  sight  the  angel  burned. 

"  I  bore  thee  from  thy  craftsman's  cell, 
And  set  thee  here ;  I  did  not  well. 

"  Vainly  I  left  my  angel's-sphere. 
Vain  was  thy  dream  of  many  a  year. 

"  Thy  voice's  praise  seemed  weak ;  it  dropped,  — 
Creation's  chorus  stopped ! 


45 


46  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

"  Go  back  and  praise  again 

The  early  way,  —  while  I  remain. 

"  With  that  weak  voice  of  our  disdain, 
Take  up  Creation's  pausinj^  strain. 

"  Back  to  the  cell  and  poor  employ : 
Become  the  craftsman  and  the  boy !  " 

Theocrite  grew  old  at  home ; 

A  new  Pope  dwelt  in  Peter's  Dome. 

One  vanished  as  the  other  died : 
They  sought  God  side  by  side. 


TIME'S   REVENGES. 

I'VE  a  Friend,  over  the  sea ; 
I  like  him,  but  he  loves  me ; 
It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write ; 
They  find  such  favor  in  his  sight 
That  he  slaughters  you  with  savage  looks 
Because  you  don't  admire  my  books  : 
He  does  himself  though,  —  and  if  some  vein 
Were  to  snap  to-night  in  this  heavy  brain, 
To-morrow  month,  if  I  lived  to  try. 
Round  should  I  just  turn  quietly. 
Or  out  of  the  bedclothes  stretch  my  hand 
Till  I  found  him,  come  from  his  foreign  land 
To  be  my  nurse  in  this  poor  place. 
And  make  me  broth  and  wash  my  face. 
And  light  my  fire,  and,  all  the  while, 
Bear  with  his  old  good-liumored  smile 
That  I  told  him,  *'  Better  have  kept  away 


TIME'S  REVENGES, 

Than  come  and  kill  me,  night  and  day, 
With  worse  than  fever's  throbs  and  shoots, 
At  the  creaking  of  his  clumsy  boots." 
I  am  as  sure  that  this  he  would  do. 
As  that  St.  Paul's  is  striking  Two  : 
And  I  think  I  had  rather .  .  .  woe  is  me 

—  Yes,  rather  see  him  than  not  see. 
If  lifting  a  hand  would  seat  him  there 
Before  me  in  the  empty  chair 
To-night,  when  my  head  aches  indeed, 
And  I  can  neither  think,  nor  read, 
And  these  blue  fingers  will  not  hold 
The  pen  ;  this  garret 's  freezing  cold ! 

And  I  've  a  Lady  —  There  he  wakes, 

The  laughing  fiend  and  prince  of  snakes 

Within  me,  at  her  name,  to  pray 

Fate  send  some  creature  in  the  way 

Of  my  love  for  her,  to  be  down-torn, 

Upthrust  and  onward  borne 

So  I  might  prove  myself  that  sea 

Of  passion  which  I  needs  must  be ! 

Call  my  thoughts  false  and  my  fancies  quaint. 

And  my  style  infirm,  and  its  figures  faint. 

All  the  critics  say,  and  more  bhime  yet. 

And  not  one  angry  word  you  get ! 

But,  please  you,  wonder  I  would  put 

My  cheek  beneath  that  Lady's  foot 

Rather  than  trample  under  mine 

The  laurels  of  the  Florentine, 

And  you  shall  see  how  the  Devil  spends 

A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends  ! 

I  tell  you,  I  stride  up  and  down 

This  garret,  crowned  with  love's  best  crown. 

And  feasted  with  love's  perfect  feast, 

To  think  I  kill  for  her,  at  least, 

Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame. 

Alike  youth's  end  and  manhood's  aim, 

—  So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin. 


47 


48  LYRICS  OF  LIFE. 

Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 
With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her. 
The  lips  and  little  chin,  the  stir 
Of  shadow  round  her  mouth  ;  and  she 
—  I  '11  tell  you  —  calmly  would  decree 
That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 
K  that  would  compass  her  desire 
And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 
To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night. 

There  may  be  Heaven ;  there  must  be  Hell ; 
Meantime,  there  i^  our  Earth  here,  —  well  1 


THE   GLOVE. 

"  TT  EIGH-HO  !  "  yawned  one  day  King  Francis, 

X~l    "  Distance  all  value  enhances  ! 
When  a  man  's  busy,  why,  leisure 
Strikes  him  as  wonderful  pleasure. 
'Faith,  and  at  leisure  once  is  he  ? 
Straightway  he  wants  to  be  busy. 
Here  we  've  got  peace ;  and  aghast  I  'm 
Caught  thinking  war  the  true  pastime ! 
Is  there  a  reason  in  metre  ? 
Give  us  your  speech,  master  Peter ! " 
I  who,  if  mortal  dare  say  so. 
Ne'er  am  at  loss  with  my  Naso, 
"  Sire,"  I  replied,  "joys  prove  cloudlets  : 
Men  are  the  merest  Ixions,"  — 
Here  the  King  whistled  aloud,  "  Let 's 
.  .  .  Heigh-ho  ...  go  look  at  our  lions ! " 
Such  are  the  sorrowful  chances 
If  you  talk  fine  to  King  Francis. 


THE   GLOVE.  49 

And  so,  to  the  court-yard  proceeding, 

Our  company,  Francis  was  leading, 

Increased  by  new  followers  tenfold 

Before  he  arrived  at  the  pen  fold  ; 

Lords,  ladies,  like  clouds  which  bedizen 

At  sunset  the  western  horizon. 

And  Sir  De  Lorge  pressed  'mid  the  foremost 

With  the  dame  he  professed  to  adore  most,  — 

O,  what  a  face !     One  by  fits  eyed 

Her,  and  the  horrible  pitside ; 

For  the  penfold  surrounded  a  hollow 

Which  led  where  the  eye  scarce  dared  follow. 

And  shelved  to  the  chamber  secluded 

Where  Bluebeard,  the  great  lion,  brooded. 

The  King  hailed  his  keeper,  an  Arab 

As  glossy  and  black  as  a  scarab. 

And  bade  him  make  sport  and  at  once  stir 

Up  and  out  of  his  den  the  old  monster. 

They  opened  a  hole  in  the  wire-work 

Across  it,  and  dropped  there  a  firework. 

And  fled ;  one's  heart's  beating  redoubled  ; 

A  pause,  while  the  pit's  mouth  was  troubled, 

The  blackness  and  silence  so  utter. 

By  the  fi rework's  slow  sparkling  and  sputter; 

Then  earth  in  a  sudden  contortion 

Gave  out  to  our  gaze  her  abortion  ! 

Such  a  brute !     Were  I  friend  Clement  Marot 

(Whose  experience  of  nature  's  but  narrow. 

And  whose  faculties  move  in  no  small  mist 

When  he  versifies  David  the  Psalmist) 

I  should  study  that  brute  to  describe  you 

lUum  Juda  Leonem  de  Trihu  ! 

One's  whole  blood  grew  curdling  and  creepy 

To  see  the  black  mane,  vast  and  heapy. 

The  tail  in  the  air  stitf  and  straining, 

The  wide  eyes,  nor  waxing  nor  waning, 

As  over  the  barrier  which  bounded 

His  platform,  and  us  who  surrounded 

The  barrier,  they  reached  and  they  rested 


50  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

On  the  space  that  might  stand  him  in  best  stead : 
•     For  who  knew,  he  thought,  what  the  amazement, 
The  eruption  of  clatter  and  blaze  meant, 
And  if,  in  this  minute  of  wonder. 
No  outlet,  'mid  lightning  and  thunder, 
Lay  broad,  and,  his  shackles  all  shivered,  • 
The  lion  at  last  was  delivered  1 
Ay,  that  was  the  open  sky  o'erhead ! 
And  you  saw  by  the  flash  on  his  forehead. 
By  the  hope  in  those  eyes  wide  and  steady, 
He  was  leagues  in  the  desert  already, 
Driving  the  flocks  up  the  mountain. 
Or  catlike  couched  hard  by  the  fountain 
To  waylay  the  date-gathering  negress  : 
So  guarded  he  entrance  or  egress. 

»*  How  he  stands  ! ''  quoth  the  King :  '^  we  may  well  swear. 
No  novice,  we  Ve  won  our  spurs  elsewhere. 
And  so  can  aflbrd  the  confession, 
We  exercise  wholesome  discretion 
In  keeping  aloof  from  his  threshold ; 
Once  hold  you,  those  jaws  want  no  fresh  hold. 
Their  first  would  too  pleasantly  purloin 
The  visitor's  brisket  or  surloin  : 
But  who  's  he  would  prove  so  foolhardy  ? 
Not  the  best  man  of  Marignan,  pardie !  " 

The  sentence  no  sooner  was  uttered, 
Than  over  the  rails  a  glove  fluttered. 
Fell  close  to  the  lion,  and  rested : 
The  dame  't  was,  who  flung  it  and  jested 
With  life  so,  De  Lorge  had  been  wooing 
For  months  past ;  he  sat  there  pursuing 
His  suit,  weighing  out  with  nonchalance 
Fine  speeches  like  gold  from  a  balance. 

Sound  the  trumpet,  no  true  knight  *s  a  tarrier ! 
De  Lorge  made  one  leap  at  the  barrier, 
Walked  straight  to  the  glove,  —  while  the  lion 
Ne'er  moved,  kept  his  far-reaching  eye  on 


THE  GLOVE.  51 

The  palm-tree-edged  desert-spring's  sapphire, 
And  the  musky  oiled  skin  of  the  Kaffir,  — 
Picked  it  up,  and  as  calmly  retreated. 
Leaped  back  where  the  lady  was  seated, 
And  full  in  the  face  of  its  owner 
Flung  the  glove,  — 

"  Your  heart's  queen,  you  dethrone  her  1 
So  should  I,"  —  cried  the  King,  —  "  't  was  mere  vanity, 
Not  love,  set  that  task  to  humanity  !  " 
Lords  and  ladies  alike  turned  with  loathing 
From  such  a  proved  woU'  in  sheep's  clothing. 
Not  so,  I ;  for  I  caught  an  expression 
In  her  brow's  undisturbed  self-possession 
Amid  the  Court's  scoffing  and  merriment,  — 
As  if  from  no  pleasing  experiment 
She  rose,  yet  of  pain  not  much  heedful 
So  long  as  the  process  was  needful,  — 
As  if  she  had  tried  in  a  crucible, 
To  what  "  speeches  like  gold,"  were  reducible. 
And,  finding  the  finest  prove  copper. 
Felt  the  smoke  in  her  face  was  but  proper ; 
To  know  what  she  had  not  to  trust  to, 
Was  worth  all  the  ashes,  and  dust  too. 
She  went  out  'mid  hooting  and  laughter ; 
Clement  Marot  stayed ;  I  followed  after. 
And  asked,  as  a  grace,  what  it  all  meant,  — 
If  she  wished  not  the  rash  deed's  recalment  ? 
"  For  I,"  —  so  I  spoke,  —  "  am  a  Poet : 
Human  nature,  —  behooves  that  I  know  it !  " 

She  told  me,  "  Too  long  had  I  heard 

Of  the  deed  proved  alone  by  the  word : 

For  my  love,  —  what  De  Lorge  would  not  dare ! 

With  my  scorn,  —  what  De  Lorge  could  compare! 

And  the  endless  descriptions  of  death 

He  would  brave  when  my  lip  formed  a  breath, 

I  must  reckon  as  braved,  or,  of  course. 

Doubt  his  word,  —  and  moreover,  perforce, 


52  LYRICS    OF  LIFE. 

For  such  gifts  as  no  lady  could  spurn, 

Must  offer  my  love  in  return. 

When  I  looked  on  your  lion,  it  broufrht 

All  the  danjrcrs  at  once  to  my  thought, 

Encountered  by  all  sorts  of  men, 

Before  he  was  lodged  in  his  den, — 

From  the  poor  slave  whose  club  or  bare  hands 

Dug  the  trap,  set  the  snare  on  the  sands,  '  \ 

With  no  King  and  no  Court  to  applaud. 

By  no  shame,  should  he  shrink,  overawed. 

Yet  to  capture  the  creature  made  shift, 

That  his  rude  boys  might  laugh  at  tlie  gift. 

To  the  page  who  last  leaped  o'er  the  fence 

Of  the  pit,  on  no  greater  pretence 

Than  to  get  back  the  bonnet  he  dropped. 

Lest  his  pay  for  a  week  should  be  stopped,  — 

So,  wiser  I  judged  it  to  make 

One  trial  what  *  death  for  my  sake ' 

Really  meant,  while  the  power  was  yet  mine, 

Than  to  wait  until  time  should  define 

Such  a  phrase  not  so  simply  as  I, 

Who  took  it  to  mean  just  <  to  die.' 

The  blow  a  glove  gives  is  but  weak,  — 

Does  the  mark  yet  discolor  my  cheek  ? 

But  when  the  heart  suffers  a  blow. 

Will  the  pain  pass  so  soon,  do  you  know  ?  " 

I  looked,  as  away  she  was  sweeping. 

And  saw  a  youth  eagerly  keeping 

As  close  as  he  dared  to  the  doorway : 

No  doubt  that  a  nol)le  should  more  weigh 

His  life  than  befits  a  plebeian ; 

And  yet,  had  our  brute  been  Nemean,  — 

(I  judge  by  a  certain  calm  fervor 

The  youth  stepped  with,  forward  to  serve  her) 

—  He  'd  have  scarce  thought  you  did  him  the  worst  turn 

If  you  whispered  "  Friend,  what  you  'd  get,  first  earn  !  " 

And  when,  shortly  after,  she  carried 

Her  shame  from  the  Court,  and  they  married, 


53 


FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

To  that  marriage  some  happiness,  maugre 
The  voice  of  the  Court,  I  dared  augur. 

For  De  Lorge,  he  made  women  with  men  vie, 

Those  in  wonder  and  praise,  these  in  envy ; 

And  in  short  stood  so  plain  a  head  taller 

That  he  wooed  and  won  .  .  .  How  do  you  call  her  1 

The  beauty,  that  rose  in  the  sequel 

To  the  King's  love,  who  loved  her  a  week  well ; 

And  't  was  noticed  he  never  would  honor 

De  Lorge  (who  looked  daggers  upon  her) 

With  the  easy  commission  of  stretching 

His  legs  in  the  service,  and  fetching 

His  wife,  from  her  chamber,  those  straying 

Sad  gloves  she  was  always  mislaying, 

While  the  King  took  the  closet  to  chat  in,  — 

But  of  course  this  adventure  came  pat  in ; 

And  never  the  King  told  the  story. 

How  bringing  a  glove  brought  such  glory. 

But  the  wife  smiled,  —  "  His  nerves  are  grown  firmer,  — 

Mine  he  brings  now  and  utters  no  murmur !  " 


"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX." 

I    SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 
"  Good  speed !  '*  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 
"  Speed  !  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest. 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace 

Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place ; 


54  LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 

I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Kebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit. 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'T  was  moonset  at  starting ;  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see ; 

At  Diiffeld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be ; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime. 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "  Yet  there  is  time !  " 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one. 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past. 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last. 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,  —  ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned ;  and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay  spur ! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault 's  not  in  her, 

We  '11  remember  at  Aix,"  —  for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees. 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank. 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

*Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white. 

And  *'  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight !  " 


FROM  GHENT   TO  AIX. 

"  How  they  '11  greet  us !  "  —  and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate. 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 


55 


Then  I  cast  loose  my  bufF-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 


56  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer ; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good. 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground. 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine. 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 


LOVE   AMONG  THE   RUINS. 

WHERE  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles 
Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep, 

Half-asleep, 
Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 
As  they  crop,  — 

Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since 
Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

Now,  —  the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  tree. 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one) 


LOVE  AMONG    THE  RUINS. 

Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires 
O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  prest, 

Twelve  abreast. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  overspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone  — 

Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago ; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

Now,  —  the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains. 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek^s  head  of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks  — 

Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime. 
And  a  burning  ring  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced. 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 

And  I  know,  while  thus  the  quiet-colored  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  our  many-tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
5 


S7 


58  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  gray 
Melt  away  — 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret,  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal, 
When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now,  breathless,  dumb. 

Till  I  come. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide. 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades' 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts,  —  and  then, 

AH  the  men ! 

When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face. 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  north, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky. 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force,  — 

Gold,  of  course. 

0  heart !  O  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns ! 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise,  and  sin ! 

Shut  them  in. 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest 

Love  is  best ! 


A   WOMAN'S  LAST   WORD.  59 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 

LET  'S  contend  no  more,  Love, 
Strive  nor  weep,  — 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

—  Only  sleep ! 

What  so  wild  as  words  are  ? 

—  I  and  thou 

In  debate,  as  birds  are. 
Hawk  on  bough ! 

See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak,  — 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek ! 

What  so  false  as  truth  is. 

False  to  thee  ? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is. 

Shun  the  tree,  — 

Where  the  apple  reddens 

Never  pry,  — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I ! 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm,  — 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

With  thine  arm ! 

Teach  me,  only  teach.  Love ! 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love, 

Think  thy  thought,  — 


6o  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it. 

Both  demands, 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands ! 

That  shall  be  to-morrow 

Not  to-night : 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight. 

—  Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

—  Foolish  me ! 
And  so  fall  asleep.  Love, 

Loved  by  thee. 


A   SERENADE  AT  THE  VILLA. 

THAT  was  I,  you  heard  last  night 
When  there  rose  no  moon  at  all, 
Nor,  to  pierce  the  strained  and  tight 

Tent  of  heaven,  a  planet  small : 
Life  was  dead,  and  so  was  light. 

Not  a  twinkle  from  the  fly, 
Not  a  glimmer  from  the  worm. 

When  the  criclcets  stopped  their  cry. 
When  the  owls  forbore  a  term, 

You  heard  music ;  that  was  I. 

Earth  turned  in  her  sleep  with  pain. 

Sultrily  suspired  for  proof: 
In  at  heaven  and  out  again. 

Lightning  !  —  where  it  broke  the  roof, 
Bloodlike,  some  few  drops  of  rain. 


A  SERENADE  AT   THE   VILLA.  6l 

What  they  could  my  words  expressed, 

O  my  love,  my  all,  my  one ! 
Singing  helped  the  verses  best, 

And  when  singing's  best  was  done, 
To  my  lute  I  left  the  rest. 

So  wore  night ;  the  east  was  gray, 

White  the  broad-faced  hemlock  flowers ; 

Soon  would  come  another  day ; 
Ere  its  first  of  heavy  hours 

Found  me,  I  had  past  away. 

What  became  of  all  the  hopes, 

Words  and  song  and  lute  as  well  ? 
Say,  this  struck  you,  —  "  When  life  gropes 

Feebly  for  the  path  where  fell 
Light  last  on  the  evening  slopes, 

"  One  friend  in  that  path  shall  be 

To  secure  my  steps  irom  wrong ; 
One  to  count  night  day  for  me, 

Patient  through  the  watches  long. 
Serving  most  with  none  to  see." 

Never  say,  —  as  something  bodes,  — 

"  So  the  worst  has  yet  a  worse ! 
When  life  halts  'neath  double  loads, 

Better  the  task-master's  curse 
Than  such  music  on  the  roads ! 

"  When  no  moon  succeeds  the  sun, 

Nor  can  pierce  the  midnight's  tent 
Any  star,  the  smallest  one. 

While  some  drops,  where  lightning  went. 
Show  the  final  storm  begun,  — 

"  When  the  fire-fly  hides  its  spot. 

When  the  garden-voices  fail 
In  the  darkness  thick  and  hot,  — 


62  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Shall  another  voice  avail, 
That  shape  be  where  those  are  not "? 

"  Has  some  plague  a  longer  lease 
Proffering  its  help  uncouth  ? 

Can't  one  even  die  in  peace  ? 

As  one  shuts  one's  eyes  on  youth, 

Is  that  face  the  last  one  sees  1 " 

O,  how  dark  your  villa  was, 
Windows  fast  and  obdurate  ! 

How  the  garden  grudged  nie  grass 
Where  I  stood,  —  the  iron  gate 

Ground  its  teeth  to  let  me  pass ! 


EVELYN   HOPE. 

BEAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! 
Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower. 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think,  — 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chinL 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name. 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love :  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir,  — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares. 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 


EVELYN  HOPE.  63 


Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew,  — 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old. 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow-mortals,  naught  beside  ? 

No,  indeed !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make. 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love, — 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet. 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few,  — 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come,  —  at  last  it  will. 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall  say, 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still. 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red, - 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine. 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since  then. 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times. 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men. 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 


64  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  sonl's  full  scope, 
Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me, — 

And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 
What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold,  — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile, 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush,  —  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep, — 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret!  go  to  sleep; 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


A' 


MY   STAR 

LL  that  I  know 
Of  a  certain  star, 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue. 
Till  my  friends  have  said 
They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird,  —  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled ; 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me ;  therefore  I  love  it. 


LIFE  IN  A  LOVE,  65 


LOVE   IN   A   LIFE. 

ROOM  after  room, 
I  hunt  the  house  through 
We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her,. 
Next  time,  herself!  — not  the  trouble  behind  her 
Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume ! 
As  she  brushed  it,  the  corn  ice- wreath  blossomed  anew, — 
Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave  of  her  feather. 

Yet  the  day  wears, 

And  door  succeeds  door ; 

I  try  the  fresh  fortune,  — 

Kange  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to  th3  centre. 

Still  the  same  chance !  she  goes  out  as  I  enter. 

Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest,  —  who  cares  ? 

But 't  is  twilight,  you  see,  —  with  such  suites  to  explore. 

Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to  importune ! 


LIFE    IN   A   LOVE. 

ESCAPE  me? 
Never, 
Beloved! 
While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both. 
Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth. 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other  pursue. 
My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear,  — 
It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed ! 


66  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Though  I  do  my  best  I  shall  scarce  succeed,  — 
But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ?  . 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall. 
And  baffled,  get  up  to  begin  again,  — 

So  the  chace  takes  up  one's  lifie,  that 's  all. 
While,  look  but  once  from  your  furthest  bound. 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark. 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  drops  to  ground 

Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  selfsame  mark, 
I  shape  me,  — 
Ever 
Removed ! 


MEMORABILIA. 

AH,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain. 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you  1 
And  did  you  speak  to  him  again  ? 
How  strange  it  seems,  and  new ! 

But  you  were  living  before  that. 

And  you  are  living  after. 
And  the  memory  I  started  at,  — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter ! 

I  crossed  a  moor  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  use  in  the  world  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about,  — 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather,  — 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


IN  THREE  DAYS,  67 


AFTER. 

TAKE  the  cloak  from  his  face,  and  at  first 
Let  the  corpse  do  its  worst. 

How  he  lies  in  his  rights  of  a  man ! 

Death  has  done  all  death  can. 
And,  absorbed  in  the  new  life  he  leads, 

He  recks  not,  he  heeds 
Nor  his  wrong  nor  my  vengeance,  —  both  strike 

On  his  senses  alike. 
And  are  lost  in  the  solemn  and  strange 

Surprise  of  the  change. 
Ha,  what  avails  death  to  erase 

His  offence,  ray  disgrace  ? 
I  would  we  were  boys  as  of  old 

In  the  field,  by  the  fold, — 
His  outrage,  God's  patience,  man's  scorn 

Were  so  easily  borne. 

I  stand  here  now,  he  lies  in  his  place,  — 
Cover  the  face. 


IN   THREE   DAYS. 

SO,  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are  short, 
Then  two  long  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 
See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn,  — 
Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  from  thine. 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine, — 
Only  a  touch  and  we  combine ! 


68  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days ! 
But  nights  —  at  least  the  nights  are  short. 
As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon  is, 
A  hand's-breadth  of  pure  light  and  bliss. 
So,  life's  night  gives  my  lady  birth 
And  my  eyes  hold  her !  what  is  worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth  ? 

O  loaded  curls,  release  your  store 
Of  warmth  and  scent  as  once  before 
The  tingling  hair  did,  lights  and  darks 
Out-breaking  into  fairy  sparks 
When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 
After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside 
Through  lights  and  darks  how  manifold, — 
The  dark  inspired,  the  light  controlled  ! 
As  early  Art  embrowned  the  gold. 

What  great  fear  —  should  one  say,  "  Three  days 

That  change  the  world,  might  change  as  well 

Your  fortune  ;  and  if  joy  delays, 

Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell." 

What  small  fear  —  if  another  says, 

"  Three  days  and  one  short  night  beside 

May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways ; 

But  years  must  teem  with  change  untried, 

With  chance  not  easily  defied, 

With  an  end  somewhere  un descried." 

No  fear !  —  or  if  a  fear  be  born 

This  minute,  it  dies  out  in  scorn. 

Fear  1     I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 

And  one  night,  now  the  nights  are  short, 

Then  just  two  hours,  and  that  is  mom. 


IN  A   YEAR, 


69 


IN   A  YEAR. 

NEVER  any  more 
While  I  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive,  — 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace. 
Single  still. 

Was  it  something  said. 

Something  done. 
Vexed  him  ?  was  it  toach  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange !  that  very  way 

Love  begun. 
I  as  little  understand 

Lovers  decay. 


TO 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sang, 

—  Sweetly  too. 
If  I  spoke  a  word. 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprang, 
Then  he  heard. 

Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 
So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed. 

Satisfied ! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet : 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 

"  Speak,  I  love  thee  best ! " 

He  exclaimed. 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell,"  — 

I  confessed : 
«<  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed. 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine ! " 

"Was  it  wrong  to  own. 

Being  truth  ? 
Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone  ? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease. 

Beauty,  youth, — 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 

That  was  all  I  meant, 

—  To  be  just. 

And  the  passion  I  had  raised 
To  content. 


IN  A   YEAR,  71 

Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised 

Was  it  strange  ? 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed 

—  Paid  my  debt ! 
Gave  more  life  and  more. 

Till,  all  gone. 
He  should  smile,  "  She  never  seemed 

Mine  before. 

"  What,  —  she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think "? 
Love  's  so  different  with  us  men," 

He  should  smile. 
"  Dying  for  my  sake,  — 

White  and  pink ! 
Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

But  they  break  %  " 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part. 
Have  thy  pleasure.     How  perplext 

Grows  belief! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart. 
Crumble  it,  — and  what  comes  nexfJ 

Is  it  God  ? 


72 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 


"DE   GUSTIBUS  — " 

YOUR  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 
(If  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 
By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice,  — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say,  — 

The  happier  they ! 
Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon, 

With  the  bean-flowers'  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune. 

And  May,  and  June  ! 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world, 

Is,  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 

In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 

Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine 

(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 

O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands. 

And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands), — 

In  a  seaside  house  to  the  farther  south. 

Where  the  baked  cicalas  die  of  drouth, 

And  one  sharp  tree  ('t  is  a  cypress)  stands, 

By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted. 

Rough  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted, 

My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 

To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 

Without  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 

Blue  breadth  of  sea,  and  not  a  break  ? 

While,  in  the  house,  forever  crumbles 

Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls. 

From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 

A  girl  barefooted  brings  and  tumbles  ^i 


WOMEN  AND  BOSES.  73 

Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons. 
And  says  there  's  news  to-day,  —  the  king 
Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing. 
Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling. 
—  She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 

Italy,  my  Italy ! 
Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me,  — 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her,  Calais.) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she ; 
So  it  always  was,  so  it  still  shall  be ! 


WOMEN  AND   ROSES. 

I   DREAM  of  a  red-rose  tree. 
And  which  of  its  roses  three 
Is  the  dearest  rose  to  me '? 

Round  and  round,  like  a  dance  of  snow 
In  a  dazzling  drift,  as  its  guardians,  go 
Floating  the  women  faded  for  ages. 
Sculptured  in  stone,  on  the  poet's  pages. 
Then  follow  the  women  fresh  and  gay, 
Living  and  loving  and  loved  to-day. 
Last,  in  the  rear,  flee  the  multitude  of  maidens. 
Beauties  unborn.     And  all,  to  one  cadence, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree. 

Dear  rose,  thy  term  is  reached, 
Thy  leaf  hangs  loose  and  bleached : 
Bees  pass  it  unimpeached. 
6 


74 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Stay  then,  stoop,  since  I  cannot  climb, 
You,  great  shapes  of  the  antique  time  ! 
How  shall  I  fix  you,  fire  you,  freeze  you, 
Break  my  heart  at  your  feet  to  please  you  ? 

0  to  possess,  and  be  possessed ! 

Hearts  that  beat  'neath  each  pallid  breast  \ 
But  once  of  love,  the  poesy,  the  passion. 
Drink  once  and  die !  —  In  vain,  the  same  fashion, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree. 

Dear  rose,  thy  joy  's  undimmed ; 

Thy  cup  is  ruby-rimmed. 

Thy  cup's  heart,  nee  tar-brimmed. 

Deep  as  drops  from  a  statue's  plinth 
The  bee  sucked  in  by  the  hyacinth, 
So  will  I  bury  me  while  burning. 
Quench  like  him  at  a  plunge  my  yearning. 
Eyes  in  your  eyes,  lips  on  your  lips ! 
Fold  me  fast  where  the  cincture  slips, 
Prison  all  my  soul  in  eternities  of  pleasure ! 
Girdle  me  once !     But  no,  —  in  their  old  measure 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree. 

Dear  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Thy  bud  's  the  babe  unborn. 
First  streak  of  a  new  morn. 

Wings,  lend  wings  for  the  cold,  the  clear ! 

What 's  far  conquers  what  is  near. 

Roses  will  bloom  nor  want  beholders. 

Sprung  from  the  dust  where  our  own  flesh  moulders. 

What  shall  arrive  with  the  cycle's  change  1 

A  novel  grace  and  a  beauty  strange. 

1  will  make  an  Eve,  be  the  artist  that  began  her. 
Shaped  her  to  his  mind  !  —  Alas  !  in  like  manner 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree. 


THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL,  75 


THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL: 

A  PICTURE   AT  FANO. 

DEAR  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for  me ! 
Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 

Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 
Thy  flight,  may'st  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more. 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze, 

And  suddenly  my  head  be  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who  prays 

Now  on  that  tomb,  —  and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world ;  for  me,  discarding 

Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its  door ! 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  I  should  hav^e  thy  gracious  face  instead, 

Thou  bird  of  God  !     And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's  spread  1 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast. 

Pressing  the  brain,  which  too  much  thought  expands. 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy,  and  supprest. 


76  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 

0  world,  as  God  has  made  it !  all  is  beauty : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared  ? 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend,)  — that  little  child  to  pray, 

Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently,  —  with  his  own  head  turned  away 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 

Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er  him. 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there. 

And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content, 
—  My  angel  with  me  too :  and  since  I  care 

For  dear  Guercino 's  fame,  (to  which  in  power 

And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 
Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent,) 

And  since  he  did  not  work  so  earnestly 

At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong,  — 

1  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  Love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend  ? 
How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 


TWO  IN   THE   C AMP  AG  N A. 


TWO   IN   THE   CAMPAGNA. 

I   WONDER  do  you  feel  to-day 
As  I  have  felt,  since,  hand  in  hand, 
We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 
This  morn  of  Rome  and  May  ? 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 

Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 
(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 

Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 
To  catch  at  and  let  go. 

Help  me  to  hold  it :  first  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin  :  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft. 

Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles,  —  blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal,  —  and  last 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast ! 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 

Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere ! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 

An  everlasting  wash  of  air,  — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

Such  life  there,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 
Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 

Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers. 
Such  letting  Nature  have  her  way 

While  Heaven  looks  from  its  towers. 


77 


78  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

How  say  you  ?     Let  us,  O  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above. 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  ? 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me. 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more, — 

Nor  yours,  nor  mine,  —  nor  slave,  nor  free ! 
"Where  does  the  fault  lie "?  what  the  core 

Of  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be  ? 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs,  —  your  part,  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

No.     I  yearn  upward,  —  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth,  —  I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak,  — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute  ?     Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 

Iidxed  by  no  friendly  star  ? 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn ! 

Where  is  the  thread  now  1     Off  again ! 
The  old  trick  !     Only  I  discern  — 

Infinite  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yeai'U. 


THE  PATRIOT.  79 


THE  PATRIOT. 


AN   OLD    STORY. 


IT  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 
With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad. 
The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway, 

The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day  I 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells. 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowds  and  cries. 
Had  I  said,  "  Good  folks,  mere  noise  repels,  — 

But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies !  ** 
They  had  answered,  "  And  afterward,  what  else  1 " 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun. 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep. 

Naught  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone, 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There  's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now,  — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set,  — 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 
At  the  Shambles*  Gate, — or,  better  yet, 

By  the  very  scaffbld*s  foot,  I  trow. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 

A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind, 
And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 

For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind. 
Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 


8o 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 


Thus  I  entered  Brescia,  and  thus  I  go ! 

In  such  triumphs,  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"Thou,  paid  by  the  World,  —  what  dost  thou  owe 

Me  ?  "  God  might  have  questioned  :  but  now  instead 
'T  is  God  shall  requite  !  I  am  safer  so. 


A   GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL,  8 1 

A  GRAMMARIAN'S   FUNERAL. 

[Time.  —  Shortly  after  the  revival  of  learmng  in  Europe.] 

LET  us  begin,  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 
Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes. 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow. 
Look  out  if  yonder  's  not  the  day  agaia 

Rimming  the  rock-row ! 
That  *s  the  appropriate  country,  —  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  in  tenser, 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought. 

Chafes  in  the  censer  ! 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop : 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top. 

Crowded  with  culture  ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels ; 

Clouds  overcome  it ; 
No,  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit !       • 
Thither  our  path  lies,  —  wind  we  up  the  heights,  — 

Wait  ye  the  warning  1 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's ; 

He  *s  for  the  morning  ! 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  the  head, 

'  Ware  the  beholders  ! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm,  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd !     Sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft, 

Safe  from  the  weather  ! 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft. 

Singing  together. 


82  LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 

He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo ! 
Long  he  lived  nameless  :  how  should  spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow  ? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone ! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  *'  New  measures,  other  feet  anon ! 

My  dance  is  finished  ?  " 
No,  that 's  the  world's  way  !  (keep  the  mountain-side. 

Make  for  the  city.) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity ; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping : 
"  What 's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  keepest  furled  ? 

Show  me  their  shaping. 
Theirs,  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage,  — 

Give  !  "  —  So  he  gowned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page : 

Learned,  we  found  him  ! 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald,  too,  —  eyes  like  lead. 

Accents  uncertain  : 
"  Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"  Up  with  the  curtain  ! " 
This  man  said  rather,  "  Actual  life  comes  next  ? 

Patience  a  moment ! 
Grant  I  have  mastered 'learning's  crabbed  text, 

Still,  there  's  the  comment. 
Let  me  know  all.     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painful  or  easy : 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I  'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy  !  " 
O,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it. 
When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give ; 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it ! 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts,  — 

Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz. 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick  ! 


A   GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL.  83 

(Hire  's  the  town-gate  reached  :  there  's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus) 
Still  before  living  he  'd  learn  how  to  live,  — 

No  end  to  learning. 
Earn  the  means  first,  —  God  surely  will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say,  —  "  But  time  escapes,  — 

Live  now  or  never !  " 
He  said,  "  What 's  Time  ?  leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes ! 

Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then  :  deeper  drooped  his  head ; 

Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead ; 

Ttissis  attacked  him, 
**  Now,  Master,  take  a  little  rest !  "  —  not  he  ! 

(Caution  redoubled ! 
Step  two  a-breast,  the  way  winds  narrowly.) 

Not  a  whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
O,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain. 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure, 

Bad  is  our  bargain  ! 
Was  it  not  great  ?  did  he  not  throw  on  God, 

(He  loves  the  burthen)  — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen  ? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant  ? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment! 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing,  —  heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure : 
"  Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not "?  "  he  answered,  "  Yes. 
Hence  with  life's  pale  lure  !  " 


84  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one. 

His  hundred 's  soon  hit : 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million. 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here,  —  should  he  need  the  next. 

Let  the  world  mind  him  ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplext 

Seeking  shall  find  Him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  Death  at  strife. 

Ground  he  at  grammar ; 
Still,  through  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife. 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's  business,  —  let  it  be  !  — 

Properly  based  Oun,  — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here  's  the  platform,  here  's  the  proper  place. 

Hail  to  your  purlieus 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews ! 
Here  ^s  the  top-peak !  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can  there. 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know,  — 

Bury  this  man  there? 
Here,  —  here  's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form, 

Lightnings  are  loosened. 
Stars  come  and  go !  let  joy  break  with  the  storm,  — 

Peace  let  the  dew  send  ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects  : 

Loftily  lying. 
Leave  him,  —  still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 

Living  and  dying. 


THE   CONFESSIONAL. 


85 


THE    CONFESSIONAL. 

[SPAIN.] 

IT  is  a  lie,  —  their  Priests,  their  Pope, 
Their  Saints,  their  ...  all  they  fear  or  hope 
Are  lies,  and  lies,  —  there  !  through  my  door 
And  ceiling,  there !  and  walls  and  floor, 
There,  lies,  they  lie,  shall  still  be  hurled, 
Till  spite  of  them  I  reach  the  world ! 


86  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

You  think  Priests  just  and  holy  men  ! 

Before  they  put  me  in  this  den, 

I  was  a  liuman  creature  too, 

With  flesh  and  blood  like  one  of  you, 

A  girl  that  laughed  in  beauty's  pride 

Like  lilies  in  your  world  outside. 

I  had  a  lover,  —  shame  avaunt ! 

This  poor  wrenched  body,  grim  and  gaunt, 

Was  kissed  all  over  till  it  burned. 

By  lips  the  truest,  love  e'er  turned 

His  heart's  own  tint :  one  night  they  kissed 

My  soul  out  in  a  burning  mist. 

So,  next  day  when  the  accustomed  train 
Of  things  grew  round  my  sense  again, 
<<  That  is  a  sin,"  I  said,  —  and  slow 
With  downcast  eyes  to  church  I  go, 
And  pass  to  the  confession-chair, 
And  tell  the  old  mild  father  there. 

But  when  I  falter  Beltran's  name, 

"  Ha  1 "  quoth  the  father ;  "  much  I  blame 

The  sin  ;  yet  wherefore  idly  grieve  '^ 

Despair  not,  —  strenuously  retrieve  ! 

Nay,  I  will  turn  this  love  of  thine 

To  lawful  love,  almost  divine. 

*'  For  he  is  young,  and  led  astray, 
This  Beltran,  and  he  schemes,  men  say. 
To  change  the  laws  of  church  and  state ; 
So,  thine  shall  be  an  angel's  fate. 
Who,  ere  the  thunder  breaks,  should  roll 
Its  cloud  away  and  save  his  soul. 

"  For,  when  he  lies  upon  thy  breast, 
Thou  mayst  demand  -and  be  possessed 
Of  all  his  plans,  and  next  day  steal 
To  me,  and  all  those  plans  reveal, 


THE   CONFESSIONAL.  Sy 

That  I  and  every  priest,  to  purge 

His  soul,  may  fast  and  use  the  scourge." 

That  father's  heard  was  long  and  white. 
With  love  and  truth  his  brow  seemed  bright ; 
I  went  back,  all  on  fire  with  joy. 
And,  that  same  evening,  bade  the  boy, 
Tell  me,  as  lovers  should,  heart-free. 
Something  to  prove  his  love  of  me. 

He  told  me  what  he  would  not  tell 
For  hope  of  Heaven  or  fear  of  Hell ; 
And  I  lay  listening  in  such  pride, 
And,  soon  as  he  had  left  my  side, 
Tripped  to  the  church  by  morning-light 
To  save  his  soul  in  his  despite. 

I  told  the  father  all  his  schemes, 
Who  were  his  comrades,  what  their  dreams , 
"  And  now  make  haste,"  I  said,  *•  to  pray 
The  one  spot  from  his  soul  away : 
To-night  he  comes,  but  not  the  same 
Will  look ! "     At  night  he  never  came. 

Nor  next  night :  on  the  after-morn, 
I  went  forth  with  a  strength  new-bom : 
The  church  was  empty ;  something  drew 
My  steps  into  the  street ;  I  knew 
It  led  me  to  the  market-place,  — 
Where,  lo !  —  on  high  —  the  father's  face ! 

That  horrible  black  scaffold  drest,  — 
The  stapled  block  .  .  .  God  sink  the  rest ! 
That  head  strapped  back,  that  blinding  vest, 
Those  knotted  hands  and  naked  breast,  — 
Till  near  one  busy  hangman  pressed,  — 
And  —  on  the  neck  these  arms  caressed.  .  .  . 

No  part  in  aught  they  hope  or  fear ! 

No  Heaven  with  them,  no  Hell,  —  and  here. 


88  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

No  Earth,  not  so  much  space  as  pens 
My  body  in  their  worst  of  dens 
But  shall  bear  God  and  Man  my  cr}%  — 
Lies,  —  lies,  again,  —  and  still,  they  lie ! 


ONE  WAY   OF   LOVE. 

ALL  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves, 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ?     Alas  ! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die  1 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute ! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  M'ill  not  hear  my  music  ?     So  ! 
Break  the  string,  fold  music's  wing. 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing ! 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 

And  speak  my  passion.  —  Heaven  or  hell  ? 

She  will  not  give  me  heaven  1     'T  is  well ! 

Lose  who  may,  I  still  can  say, 

Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they. 


ANOTHER    WAY  OF  LOVE,  89 


ANOTHER  WAY   OF   LOVE. 


j: 


'  TINE  was  not  over, 

Though  past  the  full, 
And  the  best  of  her  roses 
Had  yet  to  blow. 
When  a  man  I  know 
(But  shall  not  discover, 

Since  ears  are  dull, 
And  time  discloses) 
Turned  him  and  said,  with  a  man's  true  air, 
Half  sighing  a  smile  in  a  yawn,  as  't  were,  — 
**  If  I  tire  of  your  June,  will  she  greatly  care  1 " 

"Well,  Dear,  in-doors  with  you ! 

True,  serene  deadness 
Tries  a  man's  temper. 
What 's  in  the  blossom 
June  wears  on  her  bosom  ? 
Can  it  clear  scores  with  you  ? 
Sweetness  and  redness, 
Eadem  semper  ! 
Go,  let  me  care  for  it  greatly  or  slightly ! 
If  June  mends  her  bowers  now,  your  hand  left  unsightly 
hy  plucking  their  roses,  —  my  June  will  do  rightly. 

And  after,  for  pastime. 
If  June  be  refulgent 
With  flowers  in  completeness. 
All  petals,  no  prickles, 
Delicious  as  trickles 
Of  wine  poured  at  mass-time,  — 
And  choose  One  indulgent 
To  redness  and  sweetness  : 
Or  if,  with  experience  of  man  and  of  spider, 
She  use  my  June-lightning,  the  strong  insect-ridder. 
To  stop  the  fresh  spinning,  —  why,  June  will  consider. 
7 


90 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 


THIS  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 
Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure. 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 
Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 
O,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet  hung  to,  - 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to ! 

This  is  a  heart  the  Queen  leant  on, 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 

Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 

O,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 
Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went  on,  — 

Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent  on ! 


ONE   WORD    MORE. 

TO  E.    B.   B. 

THERE  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished ! 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  and  me  together. 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 

Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets. 
Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 
Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 
Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas : 


ONE   WORD  MORE,  9 1 

These,  the  world  might  view,  —  but  One,  the  volume. 
Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?     Your  heart  instructs  you. 
Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  1 
Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 
Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 
Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafiiel's  glory, 
Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving,  — 
Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 
Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's  ? 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it,) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not  ?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas,  — 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  m  a  vision, 
Her,  that 's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre,  — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 

Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,  and  the  world  with  it,  "  Ours  —  the  treasure !  " 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 

Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel  : 
Whom  to  please  ?     You  whisper  "  Beatrice." 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for. 
When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the  wicked. 
Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
Let  the  wretch  go  festering  through  Florence,)  — 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated. 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel,  — 


■u- 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 
Says  he,  —  "  Certain  people  of  importance'* 
(Such  he  gave  his  daily,  dreadful  line  to) 
Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet. 
Says  the  poet,  —  "  Then  I  stopped  my  painting." 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  1  —  than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

You  and  I  will  never  see  tbat  picture. 
"While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel. 
In  they  broke,  those  ''  people  of  importance  "  : 
We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  forever. 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 

This ;  no  artist  lives  and  loves  that  longs  not 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 

(Ah,  the  prize !)  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient, — 

Using  nature  that 's  an  art  to  others. 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that 's  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry,  — 

Does  he  paint '?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem, — 

Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture. 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's. 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 

So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist. 

Save  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

Wherefore  ?     Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement ! 
He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water, 
Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 
Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal. 
Proves,  perchance,  liis  mortal  in  the  minute. 
Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 


ONE   WORD  MORE.  93 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril. 

When  they  stood  and  mocked,  —  «*  Shall  smiting  help  us  ?  " 

When  they  drank  and  sneered,  —  "A  stroke  is  easy  !  " 

When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their  journey, 

Throwing  him  for  thanks,  —  "  But  drought  was  pleasant." 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph; 

Thus  the  doing  savors  of  disrelish; 

Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat ; 

O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 

Carelessness  or  consciousness,  the  gesture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him. 

Sees  and  knows  again  tliose  phalanxed  faces, 

Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  prelude,  — 

"  How  shouldst  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and  save  us  ? " 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel,  — 

"  Egypt's  flesh-pots,  —  nay,  the  drought  was  better." 

O,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  brilliance. 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  otF  the  prophet. 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Where  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and  wifely. 
Were  she  but  the  Ethiopian  bond-slave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel. 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining. 
Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 
Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me ; 
So  it  seems  :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 
This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me ; 
Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 


94 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing,  — 

All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own.  Love ! 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us,  — 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize  it. 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly. 

Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush, 

Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 

Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little. 

Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar. 

Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets. 

He  who  blows  through  bronze,  may  breathe  through  silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 

He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once,  as  I  do. 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  w^omen, 

Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy. 

Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 

Speak  from  every  mouth,  —  the  speech,  a  poem. 

Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 

Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 

I  am  mine  and  yours,  —  the  rest  be  all  men's, 

Karshook,  Cleon,  Norbert,  and  tjie  fifty. 

Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 

Not  as  Li])po,  Roland,  or  Andrea, 

Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence, — 

Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 

Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished ; 

Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also ! 

Poor  the  speech ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all  things. 

Not  but  that  you  know  me  !     Lo !  the  moon's  self! 

Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 

Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 

Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  color, 

Drifted  over  Ficsole  by  twilight. 

Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's-breadth. 

Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 


ONE    WORD  MORE.  95 

Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightinf^ales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished, 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  house-roofs, 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver. 
Goes  dispiritedly,  —  glad  to  finish. 

What,  there  's  nothing  in  the  moon  note-worthy  ? 

Nay,  —  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal, 

Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy) 

All  her  magic  ('t  is  the  old  sweet  mythos) 

She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 

Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman,  — 

Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace. 

Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret. 

Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats,  — him,  even ! 

Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal,  -^ 

When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven. 

Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  ? 

Prov^es  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders. 

Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals  ? 

Proves  she  as  the  paved-work  of  a  sapphire 

Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain  1 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved-work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved-work. 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also ! 

What  were  seen  ?     None  knows,  none  ever  shall  know. 

Only  this  is  sure,  —  the  sight  were  other. 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in  Florence, 

Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with. 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 


96  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  j'ou,  Love ! 

This  to  you,  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets! 

Ah,  but  that 's  the  world's  side,  —  there  's  the  wonder,  - 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you. 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you, 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 

Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight. 

Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 

Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 

Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

O,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
O,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel  —  borue,  see,  on  my  bosom ! 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT. 


97 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT. 


THE  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land ; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  in  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach ; 

Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears ; 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match. 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys  and  fears, 

Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each ! 


98  LYRICS   OF  LIFE. 


PARTING   AT   MORNING. 

ROUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  h)oked  over  the  mountain's  rim,  - 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 


PROSPICE. 

FEAR  death  ?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 
The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place. 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm. 

The  post  of  the  foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form. 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained. 

And  the  barriers  fall. 
Though  a  battle  's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained. 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so,  —  one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old. 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness,  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave. 

The  black  minute  's  at  end. 


MAY  AND  DEATH. 

And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace,  then  a  joy, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


99 


MAY  AND   DEATH. 

I    WISH  that  when  you  died  last  May, 
Charles,  there  had  died  along  with  you 
Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things ; 
Ay,  and,  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 

A  foolish  thought,  and  worse,  perhaps ! 

There  must  be  many  a  pair  of  friends 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 

Moon-births  and  the  long  evening-ends. 

So,  for  their  sakes,  be  May  still  May ! 

Let  their  new  time,  as  mine  of  old. 
Do  all  it  did  for  me :  I  bid 

Sweet  sights  and  sounds  throng  manifold. 

Only,  one  little  sight,  one  plant. 

Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up  green 

Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak, 

Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  between,  — 

That,  they  might  spare ;  a  certain  wood 

Might  miss  the  plant ;  their  loss  were  small : 

But  I,  —  whene'er  the  leaf  grows  there, 
Its  drop  comes  from  my  heart,  that 's  all. 


lOo  LYRICS   OF  LIFE, 


THE   DOORWAY. 

'^Ij^ty  SW8        JJ5  set  her  six  young  on  the  rail, 
X     "^      A|        <:«s  seaward : 
The  water  's^      Jipes  like  a  snake,  olive-pale 

To't^nceward,  — 
On^the  weather-side,  black,  spotted  white  with  the  wind: 
"  Good  fortune  departs,  and  disaster  's  behind,"  — 
Hark,  the  wind  with  its  wants  and  its  infinite  wail ! 

'UT  fig-tree,  that  leaned  for  the  saltness,  has  furled 
Her  five  fiagers, 
p  leaf  like  a  haflk  opened  wide  to  the  world 
Where  there  lingers 
No  glint  of  the  gold,  Summer  sent  for  her  sake : 
How  the  vines  writhe  in  rows,  each  impaled  on  its  stake ! 
My  heart  shrivels  up,  and  my  spirit  shrinks  curled. 

Yet  here  are  we  two ;  we  have  love,  house  enough. 

With  the  field  there. 
This  house  of  four  rooms,  that  field  red  and  rough, 

Though  it  yield  there, 
For  the  rabbit  that  robs,  scarce  a  blade  or  a  bent ; 
If  a  magpie  alight  now,  it  seems  an  event ; 
And  they  both  will  be  gone  at  November's  rebuff. 

But  why  muF^  cold  spread  1  but  wherefore  bring  change 

To  the  spirit, 
God  meant  should  mate  His  with  an  infinite  range. 

And  inherit 
His  power  to  put  life  in  the  darkness  and  cold  ? 
O,  live  and  love  worthily,  bear  and  be  bold ! 
Whom  Summer  made  friends  of,  let  Winter  estrange ! 


AMONG   THE  XOC£S. 


lOI 


AMONG  THE   ROCKS. 

OGOOD,  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning  !     How  he  sete  his  bones 
To  bask  i*  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 
For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth ; 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 
The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters,  ^sweet. 

That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true ; 

Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love. 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you  : 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes ! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above ! 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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